Gillian and the Fix
by ThePandoricaWillOpen
Summary: Hutch's new girl has a secret – a secret that puts him in danger. When he goes missing, it is up to Starsky to figure out whom, what and why. Cross-between 'Gillian' and 'The Fix' with some changes here and there. T for some cursing and themes.
1. Chapter 1

Description: Hutch's new girl has a secret – a secret that puts him in danger. When he goes missing, it is up to Starsky to figure out whom, what and why. Cross-between 'Gillian' and 'The Fix'.

Summary: Hutch thinks he is in love. Everything seems right with the world and this bachelor is ready to give up his ways for a beautiful woman. He was always the sitting down type anyway and now, with a beautiful and intelligent lady at his side, there was nothing that couldn't stop him. But that soon changes when her past comes back to haunt her – and Hutch.

(Prologue)

She had grown up in a small town in the Midwest that barely had a population of five hundred. She had grown up with parents as strict and straightedge as anyone in her neighbourhood. By age seventeen, she had had enough. Once her college applications were sent in and she received a response, she picked the farthest school possible from her parents and left. They still sent her money now and then, thinking that, at age thirty, she was still at school. Little did they know what their daughter really did with her time …

It started as a way to earn money for college. She had been able to get an apartment near the school, affordable on the budget she had. But once her tuition and other fees were tallied up, she realised her money would not last very long. Bay City was expensive being so close to another large city like Los Angeles. One of her girlfriends had a cousin who knew some guy who could get her a job that earned good money. She wasn't picky, not then, about what _type_ of job she wanted. She was barely out of high school; most employers took it as a risk to hire a teen. So she didn't say anything when they asked her for intimate details during the interview.

"Can you dance?" had been the interviewers, a pudgy woman of about fifty, first question. She was about to respond when the woman added, "erotically." She shook her head. The woman wrote something down on the pad of paper she had in front of her. "Let's start with something simple, shall we?" the woman asked. "Say your name."

"Gillian Elisabeth Monroe," she said.

"No!" the woman yelled in frustration. "Say it erotically."

And so began her career as a hooker and all the 'perks' that come along with being the property of some big shot who lived in a mansion on the fancy side of Bay City with his elderly mother.

"It's a job," she told herself as she walked out of the interview room, a paper with an address on it in her firm grip. "I can quit once I've save up enough money for school. I can quit… "

But quitting from the mother and son duo that ran the operation wasn't easy as she found out two years later. She was tired of living the life of a striper/masseuse/hooker and had already saved up more than enough money for at least six years. She wanted quits. But they hadn't taken her letter of resignation, not with everything she 'knew' about them.

"You can put us in the hole," the son said, threateningly. "You can't quit. No _one_ quits."

She had packed up and moved out of her apartment the next day. Her bank accounts were emptied and she ran for the hills trying to get away from them. One of her favourite hangouts now that she was free was the library. She always watched over her shoulder, was always careful to use her new name.

It was there she met Kenneth Hutchinson and were things began to fall apart.

(1)

He met her at a library. Funny thing about libraries: they are always chuck-full of women. Not just any women, however, _intelligent_ women. Hutch liked intellectuals. He'd gone to college, even (half of) medical school and had gotten used to intelligent women who could keep a conversation going for hours. But in Bay City, these kinds of women seemed to live outside of his reach. In the ten years he had lived in the city, he'd only met one woman with whom he had really clicked. And he found her in a library whilst returning a book on criminal psychology.

The woman – a tall, curvaceous yet slim lady - reminded him of a young Marilyn Monroe. She was standing right by the shelf he had picked up his book, right next to the book that was next on his list. She lowered her glasses down her nose as he passed by. He took that as a good sign as he passed by, muttering an excuse me as he did.

"No problem," she replied turning to him with a wide smile.

Hutch smiled back, raising his eyebrow as he turned back to the shelf. She had in her hands a copy of the book he'd returned. _This is no coincidence_, Hutch thought. _This is destiny_. He turned back to her once he found his book of the week, the cover reading outwards.

"Excuse me, I couldn't help but see that you have in your hands …"

And the rest was history.

(2)

"When do I get to meet this new gal of yours, Hutch?"

"Soon," Hutch replied running his hand through his blonde hair. He was sweaty from the chase as they ran after the chum that Starsky now pushed into the hands of a UNI. One would think Starsky would be the one sweating bullets, what with all the burritos and toxic foods he ate on a regular basis. And yet he was sweat-less and Hutch was sticky and smelly from the sweat his body insisted on releasing. He was the one that jogged a mile every morning, not Starsky.

"When is 'soon'?"

"When I feel like it, partner."

"You talk about her all the time, man! I feel left out not having even _seen_ this girl."

"She's not a girl, Starsk," Hutch corrected. "She happens to be a very intelligent woman."

"Whatever you say," Starsky mumbled under his breath. "When am I gonna get to meet this 'intelligent' broad of yours, then?"

"Soon," Hutch said pushing through the double doors of the temporary homicide squad room and going straight for the telephone on his desk. Starsky followed, looking over his shoulder as he dialled. Hutch turned to his partner, covering the mouthpiece. "Would you mind?"

"Oh, sure!" Starsky exclaimed walking away. He plopped himself in his seat, not as comfortable as his old one, and waited until Hutch turned back to the phone and then said over his shoulder, "You're supposed to dial 9 for an outside line."

(3)

Gillian was lying on the couch, her feet nervously moving from left to right with every second that passed. Hutch was late and Hutch was _never_ late. He always called, _always_, at this time to check in with her. It was more for her safety and his peace of mind but she had gotten used to the calls. He'd helped her get away from her past and he wasn't about to let her go back into it.

"It's like an addiction," he told her, "little by little, you detox and forget you even had a problem."

She hoped he was right with all her might. Every phone call from him, every touch and look gave her strength to quit and to continue to fight to be her own person, not controlled by a mother and son who owed people like objects. She wasn't an object, Hutch reminded her, she was a human being with rights.

The phone rang and immediately she pulled herself up, answering with an urgency that scared the man on the other side of the phone. Disappointed, she mumbled into the phone, "wrong number," and hung up. Gillian laid back down on the couch and waited.


	2. Chapter 2

(4)

Hutch was in love … and it didn't sit well with Starsky. The fact that he hadn't laid eyes on the girl made him suspicious. They shared everything, nothing was off limits between the two and this, not introducing his lady to his best friend, was something that didn't escape Starsky's mind. Sure, Hutch was secretive and more reserve of the two but when it came to his love interests, especially someone he really clicked with (someone other than Starsky, of course), Starsky was the first to meet the lovely lady. It was their thing, flaunting their dates to one another. But Gillian was different. She _made_ Hutch act different and Starsky didn't like it.

He was sitting behind his desk, one eye on a paper splayed out between his hands and the other on his partner who sat on a desk as far away as he could from Starsky. Hutch was whispering into the phone, his goofy smile firmly planted on his face. He would turn to look at Starsky as he talked every few moments, making sure his conversation wasn't being heard. It was all one sided anyway, nothing from Gillian and so all Starsky was able to hear were the sweet nothings that Hutch was telling her. That and the soothing tone he used when he wanted to calm someone down and the way he clutched to the phone, his knuckles white. Starsky knew him too well. Hutch was stressed and was playing it off, like he always did.

When his partner stood up, Starsky put down his unread newspaper and sighed. Captain Dobey walked into the squad room, his eyes on the two detectives. He walked up to Starsky and motioned to his partner who was putting on his jacket in a hurry and trying to find his keys on his cluttered desk.

"What's wrong with him?" Dobey inquired.

"It's called love, Cap," Starsky replied. "My partner dearest has found himself a good old fashion girl who will tend to his good old fashion boring needs."

"What's boring to some, is fun to others," Hutch interjected, taking his keys off Starsky's desk - how they'd gotten there was a wonder to him – and made his way to the door. He turned before exiting. "Um, I have to go, cap-"

" – I'm sure I can handle it," Starsky interrupted. "Hutch can go, right, captain?" Captain Dobey nodded. "See! Now go on and see your special lady friend." Starsky took a few moments, watching Hutch go, before turning to Dobey. "I'm going to look her up."

"What? What for?"

"There is something going on here, Cap!" Starsky exclaimed. "I haven't met her! I always meet Hutch's girl, always."

"Well, maybe he wants her all to himself," Dobey said leaving a manila envelope and his desk and walking away.

(5)

Starsky walked into The Pits later than day, immediately catching Huggy's eye. The tall man followed him to one of the tables on the far end corner of the club. The place wasn't crowded but it was full enough that Starsky didn't want anyone listening in on this conversation, especially one that revolved around his partner. He'd phone Huggy earlier, asking for a meet but hadn't told him for what.

"Hey, Hug, I need a favour." Huggy made a go ahead gesture with his hands and waited. Starsky looked around, making sure no one heard. "It's about Hutch."

"Hutch?" Huggy asked taken aback. "What's wrong with Blondie? Did something happen?"

"You can't tell him," Starsky told him. "I need you to look into his girl. Ask around w-with whomever you can and a-ask…" he paused. Was he really about to do this? Yes, he told himself, for Hutch's sake. "Ask around for information on Gillian Ingram."

(6)

A few days later, Starsky went down to a local massage parlour. He kept his badge in his pocket and made his way inside the alcohol-on-top-of-vanilla smelling place. He had received a message from Huggy about Gillian and had, after leaving Hutch will all the paperwork for the week. He walked into parlour and looked around. There was girl by a desk who stood when he came in, a smile on her pretty face.

"Hello," she purred out, running her hand through her red hair. "How can I help you, sir?"

"I'm… I'm looking for s-someone," he told the girl looking around.

"Oh, really?" the girl sat back down with the pace of a turtle, making sure her shirt stretched over her chest as she leaned on the desk and asked, "who are you looking for?"

"Her name is Gillian," Starsky said, leaning down on the desk opposite of the girl. "You're not Gillian by any chance?"

The girl shook her head. "But I could be, if you wanted me to be."

"No… see it has to be Gillian, i-its important I find her," Starsky told her with a smile. The girl's smile faltered but she pointed to the back, behind a curtain, with her manicured red nails.

"Gillian is through those curtain, baby, but she's busy. I don't think you'll want to disturb her at this time."

Starsky leaned down and placed a kiss on the girl's cheek. He went to the curtain, pulling it back slightly. He expected to see Gillian giving some old guy a massage, perhaps as background for her novel (Hutch had said she was a writer) anything but the worst. He pulled back the curtain, took a peek and sighed. Nope, Gillian was one bad cookie and Hutch had to know. Starsky left determined to tell Hutch what he'd found.

(7)

Starsky goes home, not having the energy to do anything especially not to speak to Hutch. And yet the moment he is relaxed, picking up a newspaper and reading it over, he picked up his phone and dialled Hutch's number. By the time he realized what he was doing, it was too late to hang up.

"Yeah, make it fast," Hutch answered roughly.

Not having anything to say, Starsky just said, "hey."

"Yeah, what do you want?"

"Nothing," Starsky said in all honesty, putting the newspaper down and rubbing the back of his neck. He could tell Hutch right now and get it over with. But first, "How are you doing?"

"I'm going out, that's what's doing."

"Mm. Oh yeah," Starsky replied. Yup not the time to tell him the truth about his girl. "With Gillian?"

"No," Hutch said, "the Boston Strangler." He snorted. "Of course with Gillian, who else?"

A pause. Starsky had to stop himself from saying anything stupid like 'someone who isn't lying to you'. It wasn't the time and judging by the sarcastic voice Hutch was using, he was in a hurry anyway and wouldn't listen.

"Well, have a good time."

"Yeah, thanks, mom. Oh, I'll be in early," Hutch said a second before he hung up.

Starsky held the phone by his ear, thinking. Hutch was in love, or at least he sure seemed that way. At the very least he was smitten. A smitten Hutch was a dangerous Hutch, Starsky had learnt that a while back. It wasn't the time to tell him.

"When is the right time?" Starsky asked himself out loud, hanging up the phone. "When is it ever the right time to hear that your girl is also a hands on masseuse?"


	3. Chapter 3

(8)

They were in a fancy restaurant that had, for some reason, taken Hutch's reservation a few days ago. It was odd but he didn't question it. Gillian wore a short black dress that clung to her in all the right places and made the rest of the ladies in the room like they were wearing their grandmother's clothes. Hutch pulled her chair out for her to sit and then sat in front of her, a giant smile on his face. Gillian smiled back at him, looking around for a moment.

"Look at your smile," she said. "It's indecent…"

"What are you gonna do? Arrest me?" Hutch asked, his smile growing. He put his hand on the table and reached towards Gillian clasping her hand with his. "I wouldn't resist, you know."

"Let's eat and then we can deal with that indecent smile of yours," Gillian said as the waiter arrived. Her smile falters when she sees a man leaning against the bar holding up a phone to his ear. The man turns away, muttering something before hanging up.

"… you like lamb, don't you?" Hucth was asking her. Gillian blinked, looking back at the handsome man in front of her and smiling.

"Yeah, I like lamb," she replied with a false smile. The waiter leaves and Gillian immediately reaches out to touch Hutch. "I-I love you. I really love you."

"What's wrong?" Hutch asked in alarm. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing," she told him with a shake of her head. "I just – I love you, no matter what happens, I love you."

"Nothing's gonna happen," he reassured her with a kiss on her hand. "I promise."

(9)

"It's like nothing I've ever known before," Hutch said in dream-like state. Starsky listened on, trying to keep his mouth shut before he interrupted Hutch's dream date retelling to tell him what his girl really did. "We don't even have to do anything. I could just spend hours looking at her. That's what's so great about it."

"Terrific."

"Oh!" Hutch made a sound closely resembling a squeal, making Starsky jump in his seat and looking at his partner. "And she smells so good!"

_"All units in the vicinity. A 211 in progress at Stardust Adult Books, 1620 Marshall Street," _a dispatcher screeched through the police radio. Hutch reached for it, answering the call and then looked at Starsky who shook his head.

"Another porno," Starsky muttered.

"And it's still us," Hutch replied reaching for the siren and placing on top of the Torino whilst Starsky made a U-turn in the middle of the street. "Some day you are gonna get us killed, Starsk."

"Hasn't happened yet, partner," Starsky muttered as the car pulled up to the curve. They got out, Starsky heading over to a flailing man standing outside the joint while Hutch looked in the direction of the flailing arms. "What happened, Harry?"

"Two guys just robed my cashier, that's what happened!" The man yelled, his arms flailing all over the place.

"Which way?" Starsky asked, ducking as Harry pointed to his left.

"That way!"

"You had a bad week, Harry," Hutch tells Harry as he and Starsky take off down the alley. They reach the end and all they see are rubbish bins, boxes thrown about and a badly parked car. "Nothi-"

Shots are fired. Starsky goes to the right, hiding behind a dirty blue bin. Hutch remains in the middle of the alley, eyes as big as a deer caught in headlights. He hesitates but manages to go to the left before another shot is fired, pressing himself between the wall and a black bin.

"You okay?" Starsky called out, worried about his partner. Something was obviously wrong; Hutch never hesitated. He might now have been trained in the army like Starsky but Hutch was a cop through and through. Hesitation was not in his DNA. "Hutch?"

"Y-yeah…" Hutch replied just barely above the sound of shots being fired.

"Cover me, Hutch," Starsky told him, walking backwards a bit and waiting for the shots to cease. "Hutch?" He nods and darts out, running towards the men at the end of the alley. Shots are fired but none are returned. Starsky took cover and yelled back, "Hutch?!" No response. "Hey, Hutch?" Starsky jumped out of his hiding spot and fired again.

Finally Hutch reacts, shooting back towards the end of the alley and covering for Starsky moments too late. He joins Starsky, moving towards the end of the alley. The guys they were chasing were gone, not a trace of them was left. Starsky looked at Hutch who looked pale, sweat pouring down his face as he frantically looked around the alley.

"Never did see them. Did you?" Starsky said as he looked around. "I thought you got hit back there. What happened?" Hutch fell to the ground, his knees making an uncomfortable crashing sound as they hit the floor. Starsky crouched down next to Hutch and wrapped his arms around him. "You're shaking. Talk to me, Hutch."

"I-I'm scared, Starsk," Hutch whispered looking up at Starsky with wide eyes. "I'm scared."

"Yeah. Me too. Every time I pull this thing."

"N-no that's not what I'm talking about," Hutch said with a shake of his head. "I froze. For the first time I got to thinking I could have gotten you killed."

Starsky shook his head. "No way. You see the way they took off? Amateurs."

"Yeah, but if they hadn't! I didn't move up the way you did. I didn't cover you. I didn't work the way _we_ work." Hutch shook his head furiously, his hands touching Starsky's, which still held him. "I failed you, Starsk."

"Forget it!" Starsky insisted. "Your mind was elsewhere."

(10)

Back in the squad room, Starsky set Hutch down in a seat and got him a cup of coffee. Hutch didn't like to be fussed about; he would rather be the one fussing over someone. Finally, Hutch got up and went to the bathroom, leaving Starsky to sit behind his desk and wonder what had really happened today. He froze, that much Hutch had said, but what if he _had_ gotten Starsky killed by this inaction? It was stupid to think of Hutch as anything but a superb cop who went by the book unless strictly necessary. This was _not_ Hutch. Gillian was at fault that was clear.

"Oi, Starsky! You gonna pick that up or what?" a detective from a few desks down yelled, bringing Starsky out of his thoughts. "Fucking irritation that ringing is!"

"You've been watching too much British television, Donny!" Starsky replied. "You're starting to sound like 'em!" He picked up the phone. "Starsky."

"Hey, Starsky. This is the Bear."

"Yeah, what you got?"

"I almost forgot what I got. You should answer your phone more regularly," Huggy said. "Ready for the whole nine yards about that chick you put me onto? Gillian?"

"Yeah?"

"She works at Venus Massage, like I told you. She's a high class hooker and she works for a cat named Grossman and his mother." Huggy paused. "She is in deep with these people, Starsk. They want all the shops down by the porno joints, they want everything and everyone and they aint afraid to take someone out."

"Thanks, Hug. And remember mum's the word to Hutch." Starsky hung up the phone and sighed. Hutch came into the squad room a moment later looking as downtrodden as he had in the alley. He kept his eyes down and that was fine with Starsky. He was about to lie and there were only two people who knew when he was lying, his mother and his partner. At the exact time Hutch sat down, Starsky stood. "Uh, I have to go. Merle wants to show me some new paint for the Torino. You fix that shooting report and I'll be back in no time, huh?"

Hutch nodded without even looking up from his desk. Starsky came around to his partner's side, touching him gently on the arm. Hutch returned the gesture and sighed heavily. "Go," he said with a small wave in the doors general direction. "I can do it. Go pick out colours and talk about cars with Merle like gossiping wives. I'll be fine."

"I know you will be, partner."

(11)

Gillian was writing Hutch a letter when her doorbell rang. Shakily and a bit hesitant, she got up from her seat, pulling the paper out of her typewriter and putting it under some folders, and went to the door.

"Who is it?" she asked hesitantly, her hand on the frame of the door.

"Dave Starsky. Ken's friend."

Gillian opened the door with a relieved smile and welcomed Dave in. "Hello. Is everything alright?"

"Hi, I'm sorry if I'm bothering you. I should have called but I didn't have you're number and Hutch is really secretive…"

"No bother at all, come in." He walked into the apartment, his eyes zooming around the place. Gillian could see the way his detective mind worked, trying to see exit strategies, illegal things and such. Ken had told her that Dave had been in the military before becoming a cop but she didn't really see it until now. The way he walked and stood, perfectly in sync, was beautiful. No wonder Ken talked about his partner with such reverence. Gillian sat back in her previous seat as Dave paced around the room. "What can I do for you, Dave?"

"Does Hutch know?" Dave got an envelope from inside his coat and handed it to Gillian. She looks at it confused, taking the thick yellow envelope without a word. Dave coughed and said, "There is sixteen hundred in there and I can get three grand by the end of next week. Bay City isn't as safe as it once was and I can't keep looking at Hutch and lying to him."

"What are you talking about?"

"I know about you. I saw you in Venus Massage the other day giving an old man a, uh, a very thorough massage." Starsky shook his head. "Does Hutch know?"

Gillian blinked, trying to hold back the tears that had begun to gather. She looked down at her lap, the envelope in her hands full of money begging her to take it and run. But she couldn't. Ken would never forgive her and she would never forgive herself. Gillian turned back to Dave and nodded.

"He knows parts of it," she told him. "He's been hiding me, trying to get me away from them but they find me wherever I go. They found me last week, made me do it."

"Grossman and his mother?"

"Yes." She paused. "You love him too, don't you?" Dave didn't need to reply, she already knew the answer and scoffed at herself for even asking. "I love him, Starsky. I love him."

"He's gotta be told the entire truth. He deserves that, don't you think?" Starsky crouched down on the floor in front of her, his eyes staring deep into hers. "If you don't… I will."

"I… I have no choice, then." Dave nodded, pushing the envelope towards her and standing up. "I'll tell him tonight, I promise."

"And if you don't," Dave warned, "then I'll tell him in the morning."

As Starsky reached the door, Gillian called out, "Starsky?" He turned back, his hand on the door handle. "Wouldn't it be nice to be Hutch? In one lifetime you have two people love you so much." He stared at her for a moment and then nodded. He departed, closing the door behind him softly, leaving her clutching his money and trying to figure out what she was going to say to Hutch.

(12)

After Dave left, Gillian packed her things and set them beside her door. She had a choice to make and it was an obvious one. She couldn't talk to Hutch; not after promising him she would stop. She'd faltered once and had to pay the consequences. She had to leave Hutch. An extreme but it was the only way to keep him safe.

Gillian sat down on her couch and sighed. Even if Dave hadn't come to speak to her, she realized, the decision was made. Hutch had helped the best he could but in the end, with him around, she felt like a damsel in distress. She wasn't. She just happened to be in trouble when they'd met.

Without hesitation, she reached out for her phone and dialled a taxi service. She didn't want to take her car, Hutch would be able to trace it and find her. If she left her car and took a taxi, the chance of being found was slim. She waited for the horn to sound outside, peaking out her window to see the bright yellow taxi car, before leaving her home. Her bags were heavy but it was nothing compared to her heart.

She took her bags to the taxi, the driver not even bothering to get out of his car to help her. Once her bags were in the trunk, she slammed it with all the strength she could even though her hands are shaking at the idea of what she was about to do. She got in the taxi and said, "Venus Message Parlour, please."

The trip takes all but ten minutes; no matter how far she ran, Grossman always managed to find her. She ran and ran, and the whole time Grossman was just a few blocks away. Gillian sighed as she got out of the taxi, telling the driver to wait for her. He grumbled something unintelligible in response and changed the radio station. She walked into the parlour, waving hello to the girl in the front desk. the girl yelled after her, "You can't go back there, Gil!" But Gillian ignored her, pushing open the door and walking down the corridor to the backdoor where the office was. She opened the door, not bothering to knock.

"You don't see the door? It's for knocking," Momma Grossman said without looking up from her cluttered desk.

Gillian rolled her eyes and asked, "Where's Al?"

"Out."

"Where out?"

"None of your business, little girl," the old woman sneered. "What do you want?"

"Doesn't really matter," Gillian threw an envelope on the desk, "you'll do just as well."

Momma Grossman looked up from her desk, looking at the envelope and then at Gillian. "What's this?"

"My resignation and my keys," Gillian threw keys on the desk, one by one. "My apartment, my car, my safety deposit box. Everything your seedy little boy thought he bought and paid for me with."

Gillian turned around intent on getting the hell out of the place before Al Grossman came back. She could handle his mother, she wouldn't be able to hurt Gillian but he had a nasty temper and wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty.

"How dare you talk about my son like that," the old woman yelled, going around her desk and running towards Gillian, grabbing her arm and turning her back. "You don't have the right to!"

"Let go of me," Gillian said through grunted teeth. " Let go of me."

"You didn't have a dime when my son found you," she yelled in Gillian's face. "He picked you up out of the gutter. He made you something! He made you a star! And this is how you repay him?"

"Well, I am out of the gutter now, and neither you or your cheap son better try and pull me back," Gillian replied calmly. "And I said, let go." But the old woman did no such thing so Gillian did the only thing she could think of, she slap Momma Grossman.

"You hit me!" the old woman yelled. The second her grasp left Gillian, she reached for the door and left. The only thing she heard as she left were the screams of the old woman as she yelled, "You hit me! You hit me!"

(13)

Al Grossman had just come from the shops, content at his buys. If there was one thing Al could do, it was to cook. His mother enjoyed his cooking very much and tonight he was going to cook her favourite dish. Everything was going perfect, he'd gotten the ingredients for the meal and the day was going great. But the moment he saw Gillian run out of the parlor, Al knew his day was about to be ruined.

He called out after Gillian, getting got out car without his groceries. "Gillian?" She kept running. "Gillian!" She ran across the street, getting into a cab and driving off. Al watched as the taxi turned left at the light and then disappeared among the cars.

Al ran into the parlor, running straight back to his office where his mother was screaming, pulling at her hair with one hand and slapping herself with the other.

"She hit me." She repeated once he entered the office. She fell to the floor, Al had to run to catch her before she hurt herself. "She hit me."

Picking her up and sitting her on the nearest chair, Al asked, "What happened, momma?"

"She hit me…" his mother repeated. "That little tramp hit me!"

"Mom, are you all right?" he asked, cradling her head between his hands. "Talk to me!"

"We have no choice now, Al," she told him. "You've got to finish her. There's too much at stake."

Al did a double take, pulling back and looking at his mother. "Kill her? Do you… are you saying … mom?"

"Your whole life is in front of you, Al," she told him, grasping his hands between hers. "Your future, everything we've planned for. If we're not gonna lose it all now, you've got to take care of her. Because we don't know what she told him, we've gotta finish him too. Her boyfriend, the cop."

"What if she didn't tell him anything?"

"Don't be stupid," his mother spat. "Of course she told him! He's probably the reason we couldn't find her for two weeks."

"She's smart, momma," Al said. "She went to college."

"She went to college because of you. She should be thank you! Not throwing back in your face and… hitting your poor, old mother." She shook her head, breathing in deeply. "You have to do this, son."

Al looked at his mother and nodded. "I'll make the call, momma," he told his mother. "She won't bother us no more."


	4. Chapter 4

**Feel free to correct my grammar and spelling. This chapter feels particularly rushed for some reason.**

(14)

Hutch removed his jacket as he entered his home, un-tucking his shirt and folding it on his bed before going to the kitchen. He leaned down, getting a bottle of water and took a big gulp. He put the bottle back, holding back a yawn as he closed the refrigerator door. He contemplated taking a shower before deciding against it. After everything that had happened in the last few hours, from the shooting at the alley to Starsky's sudden aloofness and now a last minute meet up wit Gillian, a hot shower sounded perfect. But he had less than an hour before he had to meet up with Gillian and he didn't want to be late.

Everything was set and he wanted this night to be special. Gillian was special; she didn't need Hutch's help (or at least didn't ask for it). He didn't have to protect her; she was her own woman. Hutch liked that about her. He might even go as far as love her… but not quite. There was something off about Gillian, something in the way she held herself in public, which Hutch couldn't figure out. Sometimes, even somewhere as safe as Huggy's, she would be looking around as if searching for someone. She was antsy in public, it was odd, but then again she was a writer and artists are quirky. He had helped her get out of that life. She wasn't anyone's money horse anymore. She was safe. So he paid no attention to it.

But he did pay attention to a strange smell – a cheap cologne smell that only Starsky wore but he knew it wasn't his partner since the tomato wasn't parked in front – which he could sniff. On high alert, Hutch looked around his house, his hand by his gun holster. He looked around the room, leaning back on his heels to look towards his kitchen, but found nothing. Shrugging, he removed his gun holster, throwing it next to his jacket on the bed.

He began to undress when he heard the shuffling of feet. He stilled, alert now that there was indeed someone inside his home. Before he can react, however, a man came up behind him, wrapping a beefy arm around his neck - Hutch reacts out of instinct, not wanting to be the bystander like he had been at the alley, and elbowed the man in the ribs. The arms pulled back and Hutch turned around just in time to be hit over the head.

A voice saying, "Take him out back. I'll follow you," followed by two arms picking him up, is the last thing he heard before blacking out.

(15)

Monk looked at the cop, tied up and blindfolded in a wooden chair that leans more to the left than the right. One of the men, Tom who was currently hitting Hutch, heard from an army buddy that having an unbalanced chair while being blindfolded can make a man feel disoriented. Monk had rolled his eyes at that, not believing a word, but he let Tom set Hutch down and then begin their first session.

"Where is she, Hutchinson?" Monk asked as Tom backhanded the detective. "Tell me where she is and we'll let you go."

"I'm Starsky… I don't know what you're talking about." The detective spit out some blood that had gathered in his mouth from the hits to his face and then added, "Even if I did, I wouldn't tell a creep like you."

"Don't be stupid, Hutchinson." Monk leaned against the wall, a safe distance from the detective and said, "she's only a dame, a broad who is in deep with someone very powerful. Tell us where she is and you'll wake up in your bed tomorrow nice and cosy with a busted lip but alive. You hear me? Alive, Hutchinson."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the man insisted.

Monk sighed, turning away from him. There was no talking to him but perhaps after a few more punches he would cave in a bit. Doubtful considering he was a cop but even cops have their limits. Before leaving the room, Monk waved a hand to Tom and said, "Make him talk."

Monk leaves the insulated room, the sounds of grunts being heard only when he opened the door to slip out. Al Grossman paced the living room – the neighbours would be shocked if knew what this house was really used for – his face coated in sweat looking out the window. Monk cleared his throat.

"He's not talking," he told Grossman. "No one saw us take him, we have his car in the garage but he's not saying anything. He denies being Ken Hutchinson."

"You are sure it's him, right?" Grossman turned around completely, walking toward Monk. The man looked like he was on the verge of collapsing from anxiety. "You didn't fuck it up and take some random-"

"It's him," Monk assured him.

"Then why are you not beating the crap out of him? Why aren't you torturing him?" Grossman bit his lower lip. "She slapped my mother. The bitch had the nerve to come into our place of business and slap my mother. MY. MOTHER!"

"He's a cop…" Monk said. "Cops are… they don't talk as easy as regular people."

"She was meeting him tonight. He knows where she is."

"He's a cop," Monk repeated. "We snatched a cop for a call girl. That is not smart."

"He's the only one who can tell us where she is."

"And once you find her?"

"They both die." Grossman said without an inch of emotion. "Simple as that."

"If you're not the one pulling the trigger," Monk said under his breath. "Look, if he can tell us it won't be by being beat."

Tom slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him and joining Monk and Grossman in the living room. He nodded to the men and said, "He's out cold. He's one tough cookie. I think I might have broken his nose."

"He won't need his nose where he is going," Grossman said taking out a small bag from his suit pocket. "We could dump him somewhere and forget about him or we could juice him up."

Monk paused. "OD? You want us to OD him?"

"No," Grossman threw the bag to Monk. "We string him up and by the end of our … treatment, he'll be begging to tell us where she is."

"It'll take time," Monk said opening the bag.

"Then you better get started." Grossman walked away, stopping at the door and saying, "I expect a call in the next few days with the location of Gillian. You don't want to anger mother."

Tom and Monk watched Grossman leave before turning to one another. Monk looked at the bag in his hands. Monk is conflicted but has no choice. He must do this. He threw the bag to Tom and said, "Do it."

They walk back into the room and begin to prepare the cocaine. Monk let's Tom prepare it, still conflicted but willing to do it nonetheless, while he ties a band around the cop's right bicep. He felt the man struggle, still blindfolded he has no idea what they are going to do. Tom came from behind him, and nodded to the table behind.

"It's ready."

"Hold him then," Monk commanded. "Hold him down real good, Tom. He's gonna struggle." Monk grabbed the syringe from the bag and dunks the end into the melted cocaine. The syringe is filled and Monk turned around.

"Last chance, cop," he told Hutch as he leaned over him, one finger touching the vein in his pale skin. The cop struggled, but remained silent.

When Monk touched the tip of the syringe to his skin, however, he yelled, "What are you doing?! No, stop!"

"Where is she, Hutchinson?"

"I don't know!"

"Liar." Monk injects the cocaine into the cop. "Liar."

(16)

Gillian mentally kicked herself, angry that she had forgotten her passport. But now the one thing that could get her out of the Grossman's grasp and she had forgotten it in her sock drawer. She had been spending the last few days in different hotels, moving from one to the other at night when there was less chance to be seen. After Hutch didn't show up to meet with her two days ago, Gillian figured either Starsky had told him or Grossman had found Hutch. The latter was a possibility she refused to acknowledge but she couldn't call Starsky up either.

She dialed Hutch's number, but his phone just rang out. Sighing, she quickly goes to her bedroom to look for her passport. She finds it, closing the drawer and looking around to make sure she didn't forget anything else. Her flat was the same except for a few empty shelfs and bottles in her room. Other than that, it looked like she had just gone for the day. She sighed again and as she left her bedroom, she heard the front door close.

Without thinking she calls out, "Ken? Is that you, Ken?" as she went into the living room. But instead of Kenneth she sees Grossman. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

Grossman ignored her, walking slowly in her direction. "You, uh, shouldn't hit mom.

"Al. Al." Gillian yelled as he approached. "How did you find me? It's been days!"

"You should really keep that boyfriend of yours on a tighter leash," Grossman replied pushing her against the wall harsh enough that Gillian's vision falters. "He told me everything."

"He does- he didn-" Gillian passed out as he pushed her against the wall again.

(17)

Starsky was barely through the door, arms full of groceries, when the phone rang. Hutch had been gone for a few days now and they hadn't spoken for a while, strange but not uncommon especially if Gillian told Hutch the truth.

Starsky ran to the phone, dropping his groceries on the kitchen counter as he did so. "Yeah? Hutch?"

"No, It's Huggy, Starsky."

"Oh, hey Hug. What's up?"

"Dig, I think that chick Gillian is about to get wasted."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Well… She and old lady Grossman had a cat fight at the parlor the other day. From what I hear, Grossman junior found her and is headed to her place right now."

"Wait - Hutch hasn't been answering any calls and hasn't been at work," Starsky said. "You think Grossman's got him?"

"I haven't heard that," Huggy replied. "But i'll ask around."

"Thanks Hug. Do have Gillian's address?"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I have plans for this version of Monk... excuse his OOC, but trust me it is for a reason!**

* * *

(18)

Starsky arrived at Gillian's place and rushed out of the Torino. There weren't any suspicious cars outside from the brief glance he took; maybe he had beaten the goons to her. But as he reached her apartment door he knew that was not the case. Without needing to even look inside he mentally prepared himself for the inevitable.

He pushed the door open with his foot, reaching for his gun as he entered the apartment. Two large luggage bags were thrown on the floor by the door, contents scattered all around them. Starsky took a quick look at them, trying to assess if they'd left any clues that could tie them to a break-in. He found none. Moving further into the room, he called out Gillian's name but received no answer, his voice echoing in his ears.

"Gillian?" He called out as he rounded the large table in the centre of the dining room. "Gil-"

A few feet from the table lay Gillian. Her body was twisted into a weird 's' shape, her limbs covered in bruises from where her bones were broken. Her head lay at an angle, she had a scarf around her neck. In closer inspection, Starsky could see the scarf had been what strangled her. Dead eyes looked at him as he bent down with a sorrowful sigh.

"I'm sorry, I was too late," he told her dead body. "I'm so sorry."

Starsky covered her eyes with two fingers, closing Gillian's eyelids, and stood up. He took the cover from her couch, pulling it over her body over her head. There was nothing else he could do for her. He reached for the phone, pushing the numbers numbly trying to wrap his head around the situation. If they got Gillian, did that mean they have Hutch too?

"Yeah, Detective Starsky, I want a coroner's lab and a crime le...la...a coroner's team and a crime lab at 116 Berkley, apartment two-four. Twenty-four," Starsky said into the phone, hanging up upon confirmation. He slouched against the couch letting out a long breath through his teeth. This was one messed up situation Hutch had gotten himself in.

Once the coroner's lab arrived, two doctors bending down to examine the broken body, Starsky took a chance to look around. It was made to look like a robbery gone bad judging by the mess. Nothing expensive seemed missing. An expensive radio, a color television, and jewelry were all in their proper places; nothing was missing in his eyes. Then again, he wasn't a hooker on the run from her mother-and-son bosses. The bags by the door begged the question: where was she heading? Was she going to Hutch's?

Grabbing the phone from the table in the living room, Starsky dialed Hutch's number and hoped the man would answer. He didn't and that troubled the detective. He could be in the shower, he reasoned. If anyone should tell Hutch about Gillian it should be me. He dialed a new number, Huggy's, and waited for the call to be picked up. Starsky's eyes roamed the apartment he was in. Rather expensive for a call girl, he thought. Why would the Grossman's have her killed? Was she leaving?

"This is the Bear," Starsky heard as his phone call was answered. "The Bear with an aire for flair."

"Hug, she's dead," the detective said without preamble. "They got her before I could get here."

"Damn. What about Hutch?"

"He's not answering. Have ya heard anything?"

"The usual rumblings but nothing specifically about Grossman," Huggy said. "Although a cat named Monk is working a job."

"So what?"

"He works for the Grossman's. He's their, shall we say, top lieutenant in their shady operations. He gets his hands dirty whilst they run the business side of things."

"Find out anything you can about Monk," Starsky said, "if he has anything to do with Gillian being killed I want to know about it. I'll check Hutch's place… call me if you find anything."

"Will do."

Starsky rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. What a mess this was. He left the crime scene and headed to Hutch's place. The drive over wasn't very far, he made it there in less than ten minutes, parking the Torino and running out of the car to Hutch's apartment.

Hutch was a creature of habit; he didn't do well with change, which was why it seemed a bit odd that his spare key was on the wrong side above the frame of the door. Wary, Starsky reached for his gun as he turned the key. The door clicked, opening a few inches. He silently pushed the door open with his elbow and prayed to who-ever was up there that he wasn't about to find another dead body in the living room. He pushed the door open, his gun poised to shoot at a moments notice. The apartment was empty, however, empty and quiet.

No shower was running, no music was playing or whistling coming from the patio, no burning food on the stove or curses coming from the bedroom. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

And that scared Dave Starsky more than anything.

(19)

Monk entered the dark room, cringing at the sharp smell that hit his face. He blinked, his eyes trying to adjust to the darkness of the space in front of him. Slipping his hand in his pants pocket, he took out a small, thin flashlight and approached the hunched over figure in the center of the room. The detective was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in quick procession. Monk sighed silently hoping the man's torment would end soon. There was only so much a body could take before it broke and, looking at the detective wheezing, his body convulsing every few minutes, the time was nearing for him.

He leaned down, gripping the blond hair and pulling the detective's head back. Using two fingers, he pulled open his eyes, shinning the flashlight into his bloodshot eyes. Hutchinson tried to move away as the light hit his eyes, Monk held on to his hair tighter until he was satisfied with what he saw.

"What's your name?" he whispered. The detective shook his head unintelligible noises coming from his slacked mouth. Monk asked again, a little louder this time, "What's your name?"

"I-I nee-need h-hel-help." Hutch reached out, gripping Monk by the lapels and bringing him close. "I need n-eed some help. J-just a-a little help!"

Monk pulled away, letting go of his hair just as Sonny Grossman entered the room. The man looks dissatisfied, as always, his eyes fidgeted around the room, his eyes barely stopping on the blond detective. A nod towards the door pulled Monk away from Hutchinson's side and out the door with Grossman.

"In a couple of hours he'll be banging his head against the floor, begging to be fed the stuff," Monk told Grossman. "We can't be certain if what he'll tell us will be accurate though. Junkies will tell you anything to get another hit."

"All I need to know is…" Grossman trailed off, his eyes off to the side. Monk waited, brows furrowed. "Is momma safe?"

"What if he doesn't know?" Monk asked. "You got rid of the girl, what else could he tell ya?"

"He can tell me what she told him. He's a cop, Monk, cops don't tend to keep their mouths shut when it comes to crimes."

"I still don't see why-"

" – Why is not important to you. You are here for one thing and one thing only: to find out what that cop knows about me and Momma."

"What if he doesn't know anything? Maybe the girl didn't tell him anything."

"I can't take that risk." The younger man rubbed the back of his neck, his thick fingers leaving marks on his pale skin with the pressure. "If he doesn't know then he's useless to me," Grossman said, lowering his hands. He turned away, moving towards the door. Before leaving, he called over his shoulder, "Mother is getting impatient, Monk. Get the job done or we'll find someone who will."

Monk rubbed his eyes with his palms and sighed. What had he gotten himself into? Grossman had already killed the girl; Monk saw no reason in keeping the cop any longer. They should just dump him back; all strung out, and beat it. But the Grossman duo had nothing but revenge in their minds and Monk had to get it for them or else they might… he couldn't think of that. He had a job to do; bloody as it was it had to be done. He just hoped the cop survived long enough to see Monk's work come to fruition.

(20)

Starsky drove back to the station like a madman. In his mind he ran through places where Hutch might be, a relatively short list and most of them he was able to cross of without even dropping by. If Hutch needed to hide, if he needed help or knew he was in danger, there were only a handful of people who he would go to. Of that handful, there was only one he would go to immediately and that person was driving like a maniac on a rampage down the crowded streets of Bay City, sirens blaring and mumbling to himself.

Grabbing the radio, he requested a patch in to Dobey's office. The faster they got the ball rolling, the faster Hutch would be safe. If they would kill Gillian for wanting to leave them, what would they do to her cop boyfriend if they thought she'd told him something? Starsky shivered. He had seen what people like the Grossmans did to cops who messed with 'their' property. Hutch was not going to end up like them. Starsky was _not_ going to bury another one of his friends. That was not even an option for him. He was going to find Hutch no matter who or what he got in his way.

"This is Dobey," the radio blared, snapping Starsky out of his grim thoughts. He released his tight hold on the speaker, taking a deep breath as Dobey's voice called out again, "This is Dobey. Come in Starsky?"

"He's gone, Captain," he said solemnly. "Hutch is gone."

"Whatda ya mean he's gone?"

"I found his girl dead in her apartment," Starsky said into the speaker. "The coroner is there now... someone strangled her, captain. Wrecked her place afterwards and-"

"I heard," Dobey interrupted softly. "What about Hutchinson?"

"I found his gun back at his apartment," he replied. "Hutch wouldn't visit his mother without his gun."

"What do you think happened to him?" Dobey asked after a moment.

"I don't know."

"Do you think, maybe, they took him when they killed the girl?"

"I don't know."

"I don't like where this is going, Starsky," the captain said with a tired sigh. "What do you want to do about it?"

"Missing persons?" Starsky said as he turned, the police station in his sights.

"That's a missing officer," Dobey corrected.

"No," he said, driving into the parking lot and parking the Torino. He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead on the steering wheel. He brought the speaker near his mouth and said, "That's a missing partner."

"I'll get an APB out on him," Dobey said firmly. "We'll find him, Starsky."

"I know we will," Starsky said out loud, throwing the speaker to the seat next to him, the seat that belonged to Hutch. He turned his head, careful to keep from pressing down on the horn and said, "but what if it's too late?"

(21)

Sonny Grossman had seen his mother angry before; most of his childhood was spent hiding inside a cupboard to avoid her anger. But this time it was different. Although he still felt the need to hide behind something and his body still tensed as she yelled, her anger wasn't directed at him and for that he was glad of it.

Things with the cop were not going as planned, according to his mother. He should have talked by now, told them what he knew about them. Sonny recalled Monk's words 'what if he doesn't know anything?' but kept them to himself.

The cop hadn't told them Gillian's location, but Gillian hadn't known that when he wrapped his thick hand around her neck and squeezed. His mother inside that, if he kept quiet about her location then he was keeping quite about everything else he knew.

To Sonny, this had gone too far and he just wanted to go to another city, start over and forget this had ever happened. Killing a girl was one thing but a cop? Sonny had limits, unlike his mother, and killing a cop without a good reason was his limit.

"Are you even listening to me?" his mother snapped at him, rising from behind her overly large desk and coming around to stand in front of him. Even with his towering stature, momma always made him feel 6 inches tall instead of nearly 6 feet in her presence. He nodded, satisfying her for the moment, and let her continue on. "Monk needs to up the dose. The cop needs to talk and soon!"

"Yes, momma," he said robotically. He knew better than to disagree. "He's taken to the stuff, it won't be long before he can't go without it."

"Good." His mother smiled at him, the sides of her lips curling up in a way that gave Sonny nightmares. He didn't dare look away, however. "The tramp is dead at your hands, how did it feel?"

Sonny contemplated for a moment, trying to find the answer momma was looking for in the cold, hard gaze she paralyzed him with. He had felt … nothing. He had felt nothing for a long time, nothing but what momma wanted him to feel. Cooking managed to make him happy for a moment before his mother's judging eyes tore it down again.

"It felt good," he finally said, trying not to look away at the lie. "Her neck was soft, I just squeezed and her eyes were empty. It felt really good."

Momma narrowed her eyes at him, he stared back unwilling to let her see through his lie. "My boy is all grown up," she told him, patting his cheek with her wrinkly hand. "Finally, I have a man as a son."

Sonny wished he had told the truth there and then. If it took a murder to make him a man, what else was in store for him?

(22)

Monk entered the room where the cop was, Tom in tow with yet another syringe ready to be introduced into the man's lean body. As it was the cop was slowly starting to withdraw, he _needed_ this dose. He _wanted_ the dose. He took the syringe from Tom and motioned with his head towards Hutchinson.

Tom grabbed the man from the corner where he had been, his legs pulled up to his chest and hands clawing at his neck. He brought Hutchinson to Monk who inspected his wounds, careful to avoid getting hit by flailing hands. They were not that deep, superficial wounds that would, should he make it, heal up in a few weeks. Monk nodded to Tom who pulled Hutchinson upright and into a chair. Straps were no longer needed; the cop would offer his arm out willingly. It was amazing what a few hours of injections would do to the body and the brain. He still wouldn't talk, however, and Monk couldn't help but be amazed.

They had been at this for nearly ten hours, the word only now getting out that there was a missing cop. Monk was sure his partner was out looking for him and so, what they did in the next few moments could mean either Hutchinson was found dead or alive.

"Remember me?" Tom bellowed into the shaking man's ear. Hutchinson flinched away, almost toppling over from the chair. Having heard no response, Tom slapped him hard and, this time, he did fall from his chair. "I said: Do. You. Remember. Me."

"… Lousy creep," was all Monk managed to hear. Tom grinned wide as he looked at Hutchinson. Monk stood little ways away from them, watching, the syringe in his hand. The cop pulled himself upwards, tilting slightly to the left as he stood and gasped, "give me… give it to me… some help."

Hands reached out towards Monk. Tom's eyes on him and the fury of Momma Grossman, among others, were waiting for Monk to make a mistake. Internally flinching at what he was about to do, he handed Tom the syringe and said, "I think he's been a good boy. Let him have it."

He doesn't remain in the room; he quickly exited, closing the door behind him. He closed his eyes and unbidden sigh escaping from his lips. This was not going according to plan. He … he couldn't be involved in this any longer.

Hutchinson could be the strongest, most stubborn and strong-willed man on earth but even he couldn't compete with continuous doses of drugs. His system would soon crave the feel of the needle pushing into his skin and then… then it would be too late for him. Monk would not let that happen.

Monk ran his hands through his thinning hair, composing himself and getting ready for what needed to be done. When Tom exited the room, shaking his head and disposing of the syringe, Monk knew there was only one thing to do.

"Call Grossman. Tell him the bad news," Monk ordered Tom. "I'll keep an eye on the cop."

Tom nodded. Monk re-entered the room and shook his head. Hutchinson laid on the floor, legs pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. His mouth moved as he continuously whispered to himself, his eyes wide open. Monk went to him, leaning down close enough so, should Tom be listening at the door, he wouldn't hear what he was about to say.

"Listen to me," he whispered. "You need to get out of here. You need to run."

"W-what?" Hutchinson whispered back, his eyes glazed over and looking at Monk's shoes. "W-wh-why?"

"I'll help you, if I can. No promises." Monk stepped away just as Tom entered the room, a roll of tape in his hands. Monk cleared his throat. "What's the verdict?"

"The beach," Tom replied. Monk gulped and looked down at Hutch. "What's the matter, Monk? It ain't like we never iced nobody before."

"We've never killed a cop," Monk argued. "Let's just get this over with."

Monk helped tie Hutchinson's hands together with the tape, their eyes meeting briefly. He could have sworn, even in his drugged up state of mind, that he nodded when Tom looked away. Monk blinked. That was good news, if he hadn't imagined it that is. He looked at the cop, waiting for another nod but none came. By the time Tom and Monk carried Hutchinson out of the house, Monk was sure he had imagined the whole thing.

"He ain't even gonna know what hit him, even when he hits the water," Tom chuckled as he opened the car door. Together they pushed the rather tall Hutchinson into the backseat, Tom getting in with him to keep an eye on him. Monk gave the cop one last look, trying to find a confirmation. Again, none was given by the high cop. Tom closed the door and Monk went around the car to the drivers seat.

"Keep an eye on him," Monk mumbled, turning on the engine. "Grossman wants this done nice and clean."

"We shoulda just let him OD," Tom said, "just dumped him on the side of a road somewhere."

"He's been gone for hours now," Monk answered, his eyes on the road as they hit the main street. "His partner is probably out looking for him and, if he found Gillian, he's bound to find the Grossman's. If he's found on the side of the road somewhere, who do ya think the cop is gonna go after, huh?"

"Alright, alright," Tom drawled. "I see your point."

"He'll be a missing cop until his body is unrecognizable and by then, nothing can trace him to us," Monk added. "We dump him off the point where the water's deep. The current oughta carry him out about 200 miles."

"You hear that, cop? You gonna be swimming with the fishies!"

Monk drove, mentally running through the different routes to the harbor. If they continued on the this street it would-

"If you take Ninth, you can hit the freeway to the harbor," Tom advised from the backseat.

"I'll drive," Monk snapped. "Just keep an eye on him."

Monk made a turn heading towards Ninth. Tom, while loyal, was easily suspicious, looking at him from the backseat like he was a puzzle that had suddenly switched pieces. Monk avoided the man's eyes, driving on like he would on any other hit. Except this wasn't any other hit. This was a cop, a cop who had done nothing wrong but falling in love with the wrong girl. Hell, they hadn't even gotten information from him. Monk would be fairly surprised if the man even remembered their faces what with all the drugs in his system. Maybe he could convince-

"Watch it," Tom said. "Cops on the corner. Make sure we-"

"Tom?" Monk called out, looking at the rearview mirror to find him being strangled by the man in the backseat. Monk pulled over to the side, turning around completely in time to see Tom's eyes close as unconsciousness took over. He and Hutchinson looked at one another. This was his chance, why was he stalling? Perhaps he thinks this is a trap, Monk thought.

"Why?" Hutchinson croaked out.

"Just go," Monk urged. "Go!"

(23)

Bernie and Arnold had been partners for a long time. They had been friends for even longer having gone through the police academy together. They had been each other's best man at their weddings. Their children grew up together, went to school together. They were brothers in everything but blood. Being partnered together for patrol duty had only added another level to their continuous relationship.

Bernie, being the older of the two, always saw it as his duty to protect his partner. Being partners wasn't just about catching bad guys or cleaning up the streets for a brighter tomorrow like the recruiters advertised, it was about trust. If you can't trust your partner to watch your back, then whom can you trust? Loyalty was one thing but trust… that you couldn't manufacture, couldn't fake. One can be loyal to a television show or even a baseball team but trust… that was earned with time. Time, Bernie thought, was one thing that Starsky was running out of.

They'd heard the radio chatter about Hutchinson, Starsky's partner, going MIA. Immediately, Bernie and Arnold were on the lookout for the missing cop. Neither one could imagine what Starsky was feeling but they could probably compare it to a limb being cut off. A feeling they wouldn't wish on anyone.

Everyone knew how close those two were, how brotherly they were with each other from the beginning. Kenneth Hutchinson, with a calm presence and warm demeanor, had calmed down the high-strung enigma that was David Starsky. From the very beginning they had practically become brothers, instantly connected like two sides of a coin. That was hard to find and Bernie only hoped that they wouldn't loose it.

"Eh, I almost forgot the wife wants to know when you - " Arnold stopped, pointing ahead of them at a guy who was stumbling his way through traffic. "Hey, isn't that that detective? Hutchinson, you know? That missing officer?"

Bernie looked, squinting at the bright sun. "Call it in," he yelled, getting out the patrol car and following Hutchinson down an alley.

"All units, missing officer sighted…"

(24)

After checking in with Dobey and getting the word out to Huggy about Hutch, Starsky sat behind his desk and waited. The clock in front of him, usually blocked by Hutch's blond head, ticked and ticked and ticked until Starsky wanted nothing more than to take off his shoe and throw it at the damned thing.

Taking the hint from Captain Dobey who had, on his way to refilling his fifth cup of coffe for the afternoon, been struck by a shoe sometime later, Starsky left the precinct. He didn't know where to go, his mind still caught up in the fact that Hutch was gone. His partner, his overly careful blond stubborn partner was gone. The only place he could go to find any answers would be Hutch's place. Maybe they left something that-

"Detective Hutchinson. Corner of Elm and Second. We are in pursuit."

Starsky was only a few minutes away from the corner as the call came over the radio. His heart beat rapidly in his chest. Hutch… someone found Hutch! Immediately Starsky made his way to Elm and Second, skidding to a stop next to a police car. He held out his badge between trembling fingers and asked, "Where is he?"

"In there, the alley," the uniformed cop informed him, pointing to said alley. "My partner is with him. He didn't look so hot."

"Thanks," Starsky replied as he drove the way the man had pointed to. As he came around the mouth of the alley, he got out of the Torino and ran to where a cop was leaning over a hunched man. Starsky couldn't breathe for a moment. Was that Hutch?! He ran towards them.

The cop leaning over Hutch's pale, wide-eyed form looked up as Starsky approached. "He's your partner, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Starsky said. He crouched down, reaching out and tilting Hutch's head side to side for a reaction. His eyes were glazed over, his breathing hard and skin as clammy as a fish. Starsky let out a careful breath, rolling up Hutch's sleeves. "Wh-what did they do to you, Hutch?"

"My God! He's a junkie," the cop chocked out beside them.

"Shut up, huh?" Pulling Hutch into his lap, his arms rubbing circles in his back. Starsky gave the cop a hard look and added, "I'll handle it."

"I gotta make a report," the cop said, before shaking his head. "You know what? I saw nothing. This didn't happen."

"Good man," Starsky nodded. "Give me a hand."

"I hope he gets better," the man said as he helped Starsky pull Hutch to his feet. "I'll… We'll circle the block a few times see if anyone saw anything."

Together they managed to carry the half unconscious detective to Starsky's car, putting him in the backseat. "Thanks," Starsky said, closing the door and pushing the passenger seat back. "I appreciate it."

"I'll radio if we find anything," the cop said taking his leave with a nod of his head.

Dave Starsky had seen many things in his long career as a military man and then as a cop but this? This topped them all. Who would do this to another human being? This was short of murder; this was a slow and painful death. They wouldn't even need to have killed him, by the look of him he was as stung out as a junkie on the streets. Any moment he would wake up and want - no, need - more of the stuff, an addict for life all because of a girl.

"It's gonna be alright," he promised his partner. "Ima take care of you."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Umm I wrote this from what I've seen about detoxing on TV so if it's incorrect, I apologise. Feel free to correct me in any way. Also, Monk turned out be one of my favorites whilst writing this.**

* * *

(25)

Huggy was no stranger to drugs and their effects on the human body. In fact, he had seen his fair share of overdoses and junkies who refused to get help. He had seen many good men and woman fall down the slippery slope of drug addiction. If there was one person he never thought he would see going down that road it was Kenneth Hutchinson. The blond hair, blue-eyed detective never seem like the kinda man who would take to something so quick. But then again, addictions had nothing to do with how someone acts… the soul and body were not interchangeable. If the body wanted something, the body would yearn, cry out and beg for it. And that is exactly what blondie's body was doing this very moment.

He'd been up for most of the evening and well into the morning the next day caring for Hutch along with Starsky. Hutch looked worse but better at the same time - odd how much it changed the man and how little it actually changed. Right now, as it stood, Hutch was a walking paradox. He seemed fine, a bit pallid and feverish, but he wasn't. As strong-willed as he was, Huggy couldn't stay in the same room with the man as he puked his guts out, groaning about needing a fix to make it stop. Huggy knew he would get him that fix should he remain alone with him. Thankfully, Starsky was there.

Starsky… there was one man whom Huggy never pegged as a gentle caretaker. Watching him interact with the detoxing Hutch was interesting to say the least. He was patient, gentle even, as he helped Hutch move around or hold him up so he could get a glass of water – a glass of water that would only end up being sprayed out of the man's mouth and into Starsky's clothing a moment later. Never did he raise his voice. Not once did he stop caressing Hutch's blond hair or making small noises to calm the man down when he got too riled up in his sleep. It was like watching a mother taking care of a child or a lover caring of a partner.

"More coffee, Hug?" Diane, his right hand woman at the bar, asked from the other side of the partition he had been leaning against. "You've been standing there, concentrating on somethin' real hard. Need some coffee?"

"Yeah, yeah, thanks," he replied, pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind. He didn't even know how he'd gotten downstairs, let alone how long ago. "Send up some food, will ya, Diane?"

"Will do," she acknowledged setting down the pot of coffee and some cups on a large tray. With a nod, she handed the tray to Huggy. "Some soup and finger sandwiches, okay?"

"Perfect," Huggy replied, turning away. "It's the only thing he can keep in his stomach anyway."

"I hope he gets better," Diane called out. "I'll keep an eye out, like you asked."

* * *

Upstairs, Starsky was running his hands through his partner's hair like he remembered Hutch once told him his mother used to do. It was odd, lying in bed with the larger man while he shook and salivated and muttered random words every few minutes. He felt a need to protect him far beyond that of a partner relationship. They were brothers-in-arms but more than that, they were brothers in everything but blood. From the outside, Starsky knew the scene would look … well, two men laying in bed with one running his hands through the other's hair never looked good from the outside. But that didn't matter, Hutch was hurting and if this strange scene made him feel better then to hell with everyone else. Hutch was his priority, not society.

Hutch moved away, his hands blindly pushing Starsky away with incredible force.

"C'mon…" Starsky whispered. "It's okay. You're safe, Hutch."

"No… Not safe… stupid goon," Hutch hissed. "Why don'tcha just let me go, huh?"

"No," Starsky stated firmly. He reached out for Hutch, grabbing him by the shoulders and turning to face him. "You are sick and Ima get you all better. Until then you're stuck with me, partner."

"S-sleep."

"Yeah, you do that." Without protesting, Hutch let Starsky pull him down on the bed and continue running his hands through the blond hair. He hears Huggy enter the room, sees him set down a tray of coffee before turning back to the door and locking it with the hundreds of locks they managed to put on it before Hutch could escape. "Hey, Hug. Gimme some of that, will ya? A lot of sugar."

"How's our little patient doing?" Huggy asked, pouring the coffee into a cup and adding sugar to the swill. "He looks better."

"Better, I think," Starsky replied looking down at a now sleeping Hutch. "A bit confused when he's up, still shaking but better."

"Gillian. Gillian," hutch murmured in his sleep. "Help… Gillian."

"You haven't told him yet?" Huggy asked handing Starsky a cup of coffee.

"Not really the best time," Starsky replied pushing back some stray hairs off Hutch's forehead with one hand. He took the offered cup and said, "When he's better… I'll tell him then."

"He just can't catch a break, can he?" Huggy said to himself with a small sigh. "Nothing but sweat and pain for the next 48 hours now."

"They tied his wrists," Starsky started. He took a sip of the coffee, grimacing as the hot liquid made it's way down his throat. "They pumped him full of stuff a whole bunch of times. He has bruises on his forearms from where they held him down and injected him. Somehow, and I doubt they were expecting him to, he got away."

"They're gonna be looking for him," Huggy surmised. "I have Diane on the lookout downstairs for anyone asking bout you or him so far nothing."

"Nobody knows where he is, except you and me," Starsky claimed.

"How about Captain Dobey?"

"I'll call him later. He needs to - hey, Hutch, how was your five minute nap, bud?" Starsky asked Hutch as he pushed himself away, sitting up on his own.

His eyes closed, head swaying slightly, Hutch answered, "I'm fine. Give me my medicine."

"Medicine? How bout some coffee instead?" Starsky put his cup by Hutch's lips, waiting for the man to open his mouth. When he did, he poured a bit into his mouth. "Come on, easy, easy, easy." Hutch gagged, the liquid rushing back out of his mouth and running down his pale throat. "Hold on to it, Hutch, come one, hold on to it." Huggy got up, grabbing a nearby napkin and dabbing Hutch's forehead. "It's coffee, Hutch. You love coffee. Come one."

"Need some help," Hutch muttered. "My medicine… helps."

"Sorry, pal. No medicine, just coffee." Starsky put the cup by Hutch's lips once more but his hand and the cup was knocked away by pale arms. "Come one now. Coffee will - "

"Starsky… you wanna help me?" Hutch asked, eyes still not fully opened. "Then give me my MEDICINE!" Huggy moved away cleaning up the mess left by the flying cup of coffee. Starsky closed his eyes for a moment, trying to fight the anger he felt over the entire situation. "Starsky… please," Hutch begged, sitting up on the bed and reaching out towards him. "Please… help me."

"I'm right here, boy," Starsky whispered, hands reaching out to grab Hutch by the neck. Hutch let him, falling towards Starsky and resting his head on the man's shoulder. "I'm right here. You're gonna make it, ya big Lummox. I promise."

(26)

Alexander Geoffrey Benton was born in New York City. His parents were rich upper islanders who never mingled with the much poorer sections of the city for fear of contracting their poorness. For most of his life, he had never asked for nothing he didn't get. If fact, most of the time he didn't ask, he was a boy of privilege who got everything he ever wanted without as much as lifting a finger to get it. That's what servants were for, after all.

That is until he was drafted into the war and became like everyone else. The war had no need for rich folks' money. He was in the trenches, in the mud and with blood on his face like everyone else. He had to learn to watch the back of those around him, to depend on others and to be depended on. He wasn't privileged in the trenches; he was just another bloke trying to survive in a war no one wanted.

When he got back from the war, injured and broken, he realized that his rich civilian life was too dull. He missed the war, the adrenaline rush and the fear of being killed. So he did the logical choice and turned to a life of crime. It was then he took on the name Monk. He was twenty-three or so the story went.

At twenty-six, he met a made man whom he would later kill to go up in the hierarchy. He had one or two more kills to make, deals to break and skulls to smash before he would truly make it to the top, exactly where he wanted to be. The Grossman's were one of them of those people. The powers-that-be wanted the mother and son pair to be 'taken care of', to use their words, and Monk had been chosen. He didn't know why but he was glad to have a chance to be of service after years of struggling to get recognised.

He was going to do well with this job. It was simple. He either had them killed, or made a simple mistake that got them jailed and his job was done. He couldn't do the former, as of yet, so the latter is was for now. Their mistake was coming he could feel it. Soon enough he would be back home in New York with his parents, if they were still alive that was.

The need to feel a rush had dulled long ago. He was nearing forty now and had no wife or kids. He wanted a family and a family he would get but first the Grossman's would be jailed, the hierarchy shattered and he would be out of the game – for good this time.

Alex Benton, sometimes Monk would wake up in his stingy Bay City apartment that the Grossman's had provided and remind himself that _that_ was whom he truly was and not some two time thug at the beck and call of the bad guys. He was Alexander Geoffrey Benton was a kid from New York who had gone to war and just never really came back in one piece. His current life was proof of that; it was so different from his beginnings. It was hard not to think of himself as two distinct different people sharing one body.

One, ex-military rich kid traumatised by a long war with scars too deep to heal. A kid with dreams of returning home to his parents, his mansion of a home and multitude of servants waiting to do his bidding, but too scared to do so. He was marred, broken by the harsh reality that was life. The world he had come from no longer appealed to him, it was fake and he saw right through it. War had changed him, for the worst. He had no illusions of who he was anymore.

The other, a street thug working for a mother-and-son duo that made him sick to the core. A thug who was paid to do as they wished with no consequence on the terror he was inflicting upon the world, only having one goal in mind: to please the Grossman's by any means necessary. A thug who helped them sort their shit together and do the deeds they couldn't – or wouldn't – be bothered to even think about.

Alexander Geoffrey Benton, "Benty" to his army buddies, had never imagined himself sitting in a fancy restaurant eating a twenty buck steak and sipping one-hundred year old wine wearing an imported Italian suit and shoes worth at least as much as car. He would have never figured he would end up in such a place, calmly eating as he waited for an associate to arrive with news about a cop they should have killed when they had the chance. A cop he had helped escape.

No, skinny, messed up Benty would have never imagined that. But then again, he wasn't Benty anymore. He was _Monk_.

And Monk had a secret that not even Benty would have believed.

Sometimes he would forget who he was, the real person inside that he repressed because of the job. His rich upbringings manifested in his taste for fine dining and tailored suits but other than that he was like any other scumbag that walked the streets of Bay City. Just the way he liked it too. He was a nobody, another contract mercenary working for the 'man'.

Whilst his parents wouldn't have approved of his life choice, his career most especially, it gave him a sense of pride doing what he did. He was helping the world, saving it from itself. Bringing people to justice from the inside out, watching carefully and keeping tabs until they made a mistake and it was time to pounce. It was almost time for the Grossman's, he could feel it, what with the cop 'accidentally' getting away, it was only a matter of time until either his partner or some other policeman found him.

He was grinning to himself, cutting his steak into manageable pieces when Tom arrived. Motioning for him to sit, Monk took a bite, savoring the medium rare delicacy. He groaned wantonly, knowing how much it bothers Tom, who immediately looked around to see if anyone was watching.

"What's the news?" He asked once he finished chewing. He took a sip of wine as Tom relayed the latest, which was nothing. The younger man shrugged, looking like a kicked puppy and avoiding his eyes. Monk internally shook his head, wishing that Tom would just get out of this life and find a real job. He kept that thinking to himself as he said, "his partner mustn't gotten to him first. If he's not found by tonight, I want you to go look at their places. Maybe they're hiding out at their houses or one of their favourite hang outs."

"Should I contact Mickey?" Tom asked, ready to head out. "He's their snitch, right?"

Monk reluctantly nodded. "Yeah. Get Mickey."

(27)

Starsky looked at his trembling partner and sighed. Hutch was a strong man, an intelligent individual with enough random knowledge and weird philosophies to fill a library. And yet here he was, teeth clenched to stop himself from vomiting the food he had ingested with great difficulty. His hair and clothes were in disarray, soiled by blood and vomit splattering's and chunks of chicken soup he had been unable to stomach. His shoes were half on, half off, legs dangling over the bed twitching every once in a while as his body spasm. His mouth worked double time every few minutes, muttering random words and phrases that meant nothing to anyone but him before closing his mouth, his jaw tensing as he tried to stop the bile coming up his throat.

Huggy had brought all sorts of foods from the kitchen, from saltines to grilled chicken, to find the right combination that Hutch's body would allow passage to. So far the only thing that worked was broth from chicken noodle soup and water. It didn't stop Huggy from trying; the room was starting to smell like a restaurant. Starsky guessed that was Huggy's way of helping and, if his stomach was any indication, it should have been working. Except Hutch's body, barely a day and a half off the stuff, just wasn't ready for nutrients.

_Soon_, he told himself, _Hutch will be back in tip-top shape_.

_And then you'll have to tell him_, another voice in his head reasoned. _You can't keep this from him; he would want to get the news from you rather than some reporter on the news or some street junkie blabbing for some dope._

He stood up from the bed, careful not to wake Hutch, and poured himself some cold coffee from the tray Huggy had brought in earlier. He sighed into the cup, all he needed to do now was help Hutch get the stuff out of his system and find out who had done this. Then, only then, could he rest.

Hutch stirred, groaning as he opened his eyes and was introduced to daylight pouring from the nearby windows. He pulled the cover over his face and muttered, "too bright."

"Here," Starsky asked, pulling the drapes closed. He turned on a lamp by the side table near the bathroom to illuminate the room. "How's that?"

"Better," Hutch replied pulling the covers back. With difficulty he managed to sit up in bed, his body protesting at the movement. His muscles felt sore, like he hadn't moved in weeks, there was a strange taste in his mouth and a burning in his throat. Hutch coughed but soon found himself unable to stop. Starsky rushed over, patting his back and handing him a cup of water. He drank it, handing back the cup just as the water came rushing back up his throat. With the speed he never thought possible, he stood up and ran to the bathroom, pushing open the door and lifting the toilet seat just in time.

Once stomach was empty, much to Starsky's worry, Hutch hunched over the sink, trying to get some semblance of cleanliness. Splashing cold water on his face to wake himself up, he rinsed his mouth before turning to his partner with a grim smile. Starsky returned the smile, his eyes falling to the floor as he hoped to whoever was looking after them up there that the worst was over.

"Thanks," Hutch began, "you know, for everything. You never stopped looking, did ya?" Starsky shook his head. "I'm glad. I rather not be turned into fish food."

"They wouldn't eat you," Starsky replied, eyes lifting. "You're all skin and bones."

Hutch chuckled. "Ouch. Don't make me laugh."

"They did some number one you." The dark-haired detective stood up from the bed. "You had me worried sick," he admitted as he reached Hutch by the bathroom sink. "All this… for one girl?"

"All this for one girl," Hutch confirmed. "Where is she, by the way? You got her to safety once you realised I was gone, right?"

Startsky lifted his left hand, looking at Hutch through the bathroom mirror rather than directly, placing it gently on his shoulder. Their eyes met. He didn't have to say the words, they had been partners long enough to know that look. The look they had to put on when telling a loved one that their relative died in some horrid, man-made accident they couldn't stop. Starsky didn't want to say the words; he didn't want to make this even more real for Hutch than it had to be. If the words went unsaid, maybe - just maybe - he could pretend a little longer that he had a beautiful gal waiting for him at home with open arms.

But Hutch knew. His blue eyes opened wide, scanning Starsky's face in the mirror as if trying to find anything that suggested this was just a cruel joke. He let out a breath through his clenched mouth a moment later, eyes falling away from the mirror as he asked, "H-how?"

"She, um, she was strangled," Starsky informed him softly; his hand gripped his shoulder tightly, trying to convey his sadness and remorse at once without having to say the words. It hurt a moment later when Hutch moved away, Starsky's hand hovering over the space Hutch's body had previously occupied. The blond detective sidestepped his partner, going around him until he was out of the bathroom. "Hutch, listen-"

" - Who?" Hutch turned on his heel, his body unsteady at the movement, asking the question to a mystery only Hutch himself could solve.

"Wish that I knew, partner," Starsky whispered. "Whoever got you, Grossman by my guess, also got Gillian. They wanted it to look like a robbery gone wrong but… it was murder." He took a step towards Hutch, leaving the bathroom. "Do you remember anything?"

"No!" Hutch snapped, rubbing the back of his neck. His mind whirred as he tried to process the information. Gillian, his Gillian, was dead. No, he told himself, they must be confusing her with someone else. He didn't even meet her, how would he know what she looked like. But one look at Starsky, at his partner, and knew, without a doubt that Gillian was dead.

(28)

Sonny paced the small office that belonged to his mother. Wringing his hands nervously, he looked at the door and waited for the oncoming shit-storm that was about to happen.

Failure.

Yet again.

It was all he'd ever been good at, failing. Nothing in his life made momma proud, he was her pawn to shape and use as she pleased and he knew it. He had grown up that way, living under the reign of a cruel mother who wanted nothing more than an army of little minions at her disposal. She had only gotten one, him, and it did not please her. He suffered through it all; he loved his mother even if she didn't love him. Love was never a factor when it came to momma and her business. Money, power and status were all that mattered and he had gotten in the way of things today. Well, not him per se.

Monk was their - no, the - best when it came to dealing with 'pests' and, according to momma, the cop was a pest. And now, because of Tom and Monk's incompetence, he was going to pay. They should've made sure the cop was too high to think to escape, too doped up to do nothing but giggled his shits off when the water closed in around him. But they had made a mistake.

Momma had called him into her office ten minutes ago, wanting a status update on the 'pest control problem' as she called it. But upon knocking and receiving no answer, Sonny found her office empty. Minutes passed, he continued to pace nervously, sweat pouring down his brow.

A knock on the door made his heart stop. He took a step towards the door, his hands shaking as he reached out to turn the doorknob and reveal the person who had almost given him a heart attack. It wasn't momma; she had a key so who-

"Afternoon, Sonny," Monk greeted brushing past him as he walked into the room. Sonny closed the door, taking a brief look to make sure he wasn't about to slam the door in Momma's face. Monk stood in the centre of the room, his eyes looking around as if he'd lost something. "Where's your mom?"

"I don't know," Sonny answered with a shrug. "She told me to meet her here a few minutes ago but her office was empty."

"I bet she wants to talk about the cop." Monk clicked his tongue and nodded. "Yeah. I bet. Tom and I, we've been searching but as far as we can tell, Hutchinson is gone. His partner probably got him stashed somewhere until the dope wears off. Might be a few days until-"

"Tell it to momma," Sonny snapped continuing his nervous pacing. "I didn't want this in the first place."

Monk raised an eyebrow. "Coulda fooled me," he muttered. "You may not have wanted to do it but you did. That there is the difference between good and evil."

"Oh shut up! What do you know about good and evil?" Monk just shrugged. Sonny halted his movement and rounded on Monk. His narrowed eyes looked right into the other man's grey ones; their height differences making Monk take a step back in order to look at Sonny properly. Sonny tilted his head and wondered out loud, "what is it about you that feel… off? Sometimes, I swear, you're more reluctant to do things than I am and that is saying something."

"I don't kill cops," Monk replied evenly, not giving an inch. "Cops are a ballpark I want no part in."

"Is that why you let him go?" Sonny asked, blinking rapidly as the thought just occurred to him. Monk willed himself not to look away but faltered. The taller man stepped back, a satisfied look on his face. "You helped him, didn't you?"

"No."

"Why would you let him go? He's gonna spill everything, about the stuff you injected him with, everything. You idiot!" Sonny felt his hand recoil back, the movement seemed natural to him. Before the hand managed to make contact with Monk's face, he was on the desk, hand behind his back. Monk was behind him, tightening the hold on his arm and pushing him down on the desk hard enough to leave a mark. "Let. Me. Go."

Monk leaned down and whispered into Sonny's ear, "you are more like your mother everyday. I suggest, before the tides turn, that you man up and stop being a momma's boy." The grip on Sonny's arm loosed as Monk moved away. Once the man was on his feet, a large red bruise on his chest, Monk waved a two-finger salute.

"I better not see you around!" Sonny yelled at Monk's retreating form. "I better not!"

"You won't," came Monk's response over his shoulder. He stopped by the door, turning. "I hope you do leave your mother's side one day. You'd make a fantastic chef, Sonny."

Monk left the office, moving as quickly as he could out of the establishment and into the public eye. They wouldn't do anything to him in public, not with the patrol car around the corner. He was safe. Now, it was time for Benty to come home.

(29)

It took him a full hour to get his things from his – the Grossman's paid – apartment he'd been living in. After that, after ditching his car and stealing a car he would never think of driving, he drove. Nearly four hours after leaving Sonny in the big office that smelt like cinnamon and earwax, Monk rubbed his face. He had pulled up by the side of the road, somewhere outside the city limits.

"What am I gonna do?" He asked himself, his voice echoing in the small confines of the car. "I've ruined the mission, the chief is going to kill me if Momma doesn't get me first, that is. Sonny is pissed, Tom is still out there looking for the cop I nearly killed." He sighed. "When did shit get so complicated? This was supposed to be a simple assignment and look at where you are, Benty. On the side of a road in a stolen car wearing clothes bought with blood money and with the blood of a cop on your hands."

There was only one thing he _could_ do. Alexander Geoffrey Benton, "Benty" to his friends, squared his shoulders, turned on the engine and drove back the way he came. If he didn't finish what he started, the last twenty years of his life were meaningless.

"I'm coming home," he told his reflection on the rearview mirror.

(30)

The phone rang on the tenth floor of the police headquarters deep cover unit. The chief, Captain David Anderson, picked it up like he would any phone call. As of late, the calls he'd been getting had been for a café that had recently opened a few doors down the street whose phone number was almost identical except for the last number. The sign outside the café, _The Angel's Sacrifice,_ was missing a number on the window where they advertised their number. Instead of a 6, the manager had put up a 9, thus Captain Anderson, a highly decorated police chief, had to sit by and direct all those youngster who called to the right place every few minutes.

He expected the call to be one of those calls. He was wrong.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I might have switched POV's too much... If you don't like it let me know.**

* * *

(31)

Sonny waited for Momma long after Monk left. Still reeling from the confrontation, he nearly snapped at her when she entered, a bag of take out food in her hand. He shut his mouth before a word left it, his mother oblivious to his presence. When she turned, closing the door delicately behind her, she started.

"Sonny! You nearly gave me a heart attack! Make your presence known next time," she chastised walking towards him at a slow pace. He made no move to stand from his seat on the far side of the room; he sat there watching his mother go about her day as if he wasn't there. She sat down, laying out her food carefully in front of her, pushing away the scattered papers on her desk so they wouldn't get dirty from the food. Momma ate like a lady using a fork and knife on everything. Sonny had always thought that it just made her look pretentious, but never told her that. As she took out her favourite utensils, she turned to him with a scowl. "Well?"

"Yes, Momma?"

"What do you want?" She asked sharply. "Why are you here?"

Sonny blinked. "You called me, Momma, you said you needed to talk to me."

"That was five hours ago," she replied with a roll of her eyes. "What are you still doing here?"

"I was waiting for you, Momma."

"Idiot," Momma muttered to herself returning to her food.

She ignored him after that. Not one glance or indication that he was there. Momma did that sometimes; ignore him as if he was just a lifeless doll or a piece of furniture. He didn't like it, felt unwanted, but would never dare tell her that. He did not have a death wish, unlike somebody he knew.

He sat up, walking to stand in front of Momma's desk. He waited for her to acknowledge him, her eyes briefly looking up at him, before speaking. "He escaped."

Momma didn't answer for a long time, time that Sonny wished would be spent yelling at him rather than having to stand in front of her holding his breathe for the shoe to drop. Finally, she pushed her chair away, circling around the desk to face her son. Sonny turned slowly, looking down at his mother. He breathed in sharply and waited for the blow that he knew would come. Momma's thin, bony hand stuck Sonny twice. He expected the blows, but nevertheless it hurt. He rubbed his cheek as Momma stepped away, his eyes on the floor.

Sometimes - no, _most_ of the time - he hated Momma. Monk was right, it would be better for him to pack up and leave. But Momma wouldn't let him just go; she needed him. Constant reminder of the acts she made him do kept him in check. It was a case of 'If I go down, you go down with me' that made Sonny was too scared to make a real life for himself outside of his mother's grasp.

"You stupid, stupid jerk," Momma croaked as she went back to her seat. "You can't do anything right, can't you?" She didn't wait for a reply. "That cop is running around out there in the world and all you can say is 'he escaped'?" Sonny opened his mouth to reply but Momma slammed her hand on the table with more force than any old woman should have and bellowed, "Answer me, Sonny!"

"The girl is dead. The cop is doped up, probably disoriented and looking for a fix," Sonny responded without looking at his mother. "He didn't see or hear anything. I was careful. Monk said-"

" - Where _is_ Monk?" Momma interrupted. "He should have been here too, it's his mistake as well as yours."

Sonny hesitated. Should he tell Momma about Monk or keep his mouth shut? Was there anything to worry about, anyways? What was Monk going to do? Go to cops and implicate himself as well as them? He might have been a gun for higher but Monk wasn't stupid. He wouldn't say anything to the cops and therefore there was nothing to worry about.

"Monk is looking for the cop, Momma," Sonny lied. "He won't be back until the cop is found, I promise."

"What about the other kid? The lanky one... Tom?"

"He's getting Mickey," he replied. "Trying to get him to co-operate."

Momma looked at him, cocking her head to the side as if confused and said, "Well? Go help him!"

"Yes, Momma," Sonny hastily muttered, turning to leave the office. The last thing he heard his Momma say as he closed the door sounded a lot like "useless".

_You'll see, _he said to himself, _I'll find the cop and ice him and his partner and then I won't be so useless. I'll make you proud.  
_

* * *

David Anderson had seen a lot of things. He had survived a world war with nothing but a busted kneecap and too many bloody stories to relive in his sleep. Recovery had been slow and painful but his injuries were better than most and he would be able to go home unlike many of his comrades. He'd become a cop in his thirties and quickly rose to the ranks. Now, he was nearing age sixty and he could honestly say that this, the man in front of him, was a surprise.

He hadn't expected the man to be real, to actually show up after being in deep cover for so long. He'd fallen of the radar, for goodness sake, presumed dead by everyone. And now here he was, alive and well, with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step. Anderson couldn't wait to hear what Benton had to say for himself.

"So, what brings you back from the grave?" He asked skipping all pleasantries and bullshit. "You've been gone for decades, man. Our squad was broken apart because you were gone. We were dismantled and thought of as failures. It took me longer than most to get where I am today thanks to your disappearing act."

Benton chuckled. "I know, man, I'm sorry!"

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" Anderson snapped. Benton looked him straight in the eye, didn't flinch in the slightest. He certainly had changed. The old Benton, the Vietnam War rich kid who wanted an adrenaline high, was no longer there. In his place was a man who had seen too much, done too much and just wanted to forget it all and go home. Anderson leaned forward on his desk and sighed. "Tell me everything."

* * *

Tom watched as Mickey looked around the street before slowly approaching him as if at any moment cops would spring from out of nowhere to get him. Known for being a snitch, Mickey was the lowest of the low in Tom's eyes. Why betray his people, his friends and family on the street, for a few lousy bucks to some high strung, over-compensating cops? He would never understand the drive of men like that.

He knew the man's background, knew that it had been the Grossman's own doing many years ago at the beginning of their organisation. And yet, if Mickey had been a good 'employee' to them, he wouldn't have gotten left behind and perhaps he would be by Tom's side instead of a drunk and junkie working for both sides and having allegiance to no one but the needs of his body.

The steady pace of the drunken man infuriated Tom's already low patience as Mickey finally made his way inside the dirty bar. Tom had never been to this location and, if he was lucky, he never would again. Not the typical locale for a secret meet-up, it was the only place that Mickey would frequent regularly and where, as Sonny told him, the cops always met with him. Tom would not stand out against the multitude of thugs and wanna be's that decorated the lounge and stalls of the squatty place he now inhabited.

As Mickey finally made his way to him, his dirty hand coming up to rub his nose, Tom cringed as the same hand was then extended to him. He ignored the shaky hand hovering in his space and lifted his own to the bartender, signalling for two drinks, and led Mickey to a nearby table.

_Let's get this over with,_ Tom thought to himself. _I need to go home and shower to get rid of all the grime of this place._

* * *

Mickey now sat on a stool cradling a pint of beer, his hands shaking as he picked the cup up and raised it to his lips. He took a small sip, the cold liquid coating his throat as he drank. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste a moment longer before clearing his throat, now replenished, and looking at the tall bloke who sat in front of him.

Tom, that was his name. He remembered him from a few jobs he's done for the Grossman's in the past before... before his life went down the proverbial dumpster that was now his home. The Grossman's had been nice to him from the beginning, they had seen to it that no one bothered him. Even then, his life had yet to take a bad turn. Years later, after the Grossman's left and then returned as the big bosses of Bay City, Mickey had changed but he was still loyal. If there was anything a bum was devoted to it was his friends. And the Grossman's were his friends.

"What?" Tom snapped at him after a few silent minutes. "Do I got something on my face? Why do you keep staring at me?"

Mickey chuckled to himself, his fingers grasping the table's edge as he leaned forward to speak. "I used to be like you, you know? This big chap who-who was bossed around and p-paid to boss others around. N-now look at me."

Tom rolled his eyes, scoffing at Mickey's words and dismissing them as a drunk's tirade against the world. The drunk leaned back and waited for Tom to speak, his hands wrapping themselves around the tall glass of beer in front of him. When the man said nothing, he brought the glass up to his lips and took a larger sip, eyes never leaving Tom.

Until finally, the man spoke, "Momma Grossman sent me." When Mickey gave no reply, he continued, "We know you know the cops Starsky and Hutchinson. They trust you as their informant, they think you are reliable."

"They ain't stupid," Mickey replied, his lips hovering over the rim of the glass. He took a tiny sip and said, "I don't need buttering up, what do I do?"

(32)

Captain Dobey was going over a few statistical reports from a field report when his desk phone rang. Times like these, when he was physically tired and ready to go home even if it was noon, was when he wished he had a secretary. Putting down the papers filled with charts and graphs that he didn't understand, much less be able to read, he picked up the phone and answered.

"Morning, Captain," Starsky said on the other side of the line. "Well, I think our patient is gonna survive."

"Good, Starsky, that's very good," Dobey answered with a smile. Hours of worry had paid off, his officer was safe and now all that was left to do was some police work, something Starsky and Hutch were excellent at doing. "Maybe I ought to recommend you for a transfer to rescue."

"One time thing, Captain, I promise." There was some shuffling on the other side of the phone before Starsky spoke again. "He's as weak as a kitten right now, it'll probably be another day or so before he even opens his eyes completely. He still can't keep much down, keeps throwing it up, but... it's looking better."

"That's great, Starsky."

"Hey, listen, um, I need a DMV read on a license. It belongs to some fink who came asking bout Hutch. I had it last night but I didn't want to talk to anyone but you about it."

"You want me to have an officer run that down?"

"No, thanks. I just wanna know who owns the car, it might be nothing but... It's important, Captain."

"Alright, what's the license?"

"JNJ-322," Starsky supplied slowly.

"Let me put you on hold," Captain Dobey said, calling the DMV a moments later and relaying the information. He waited for the desk clerk to find the details, waiting on the line and listening to the sound of papers being turns, grumbles and laughs from the officers on the other end and, finally, the phone being picked up.

The officer on the other end communicated the information in a typical bored voice that DMV sergeant's tended to have towards detectives. As much as it annoyed the Captain, he had worst things to worry about than an attitude problem.

"Will that be all, captain?" the man asked.

Captain Dobey grumbled a thank you and switched back to Starsky. He could hear Hutchinson and Starsky speak on the other end. Pleased, Dobey called out, "Starsky? I got your John-Nellie-John-three-two-two."

"Hit me, Cap," came the reply.

"Allen 'Monk' Philos. Nine-niner-one-five Merchamer Street."

"Thanks, Captain," Starsky replied, hanging up a moment later.

Dobey remained on the line, contemplating what had occurred the last few days. They were getting close to the source. Whoever had kidnapped the blond detective had gotten sloppy and now, his best and brightest, were on their tail. If this _Monk_ character had anything to do with it, Starsky would find out.

He put the receiver down, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes with the palm of his hands before sighing and getting back to the reports that were, unfortunately, calling out for him.

* * *

Benton watched as David Anderson, always the cool one of the lot, lost his temper. _Boy, have times changed_, he thought as the captain closed his eyes tightly, his jaw tense and took deep breaths. He watched the man who had dug him out of crime, taken him through the academy in secret and enlisted in him a sort of responsibility he hadn't felt since the war, break down in front of him with frustration as he finished his tale. He had truly messed up, he knew that, Anderson didn't need to suffer for his mistakes, his running out on them in the middle of an investigation and getting to be the Grossman's right hand man outside of the police force's power.

At the time, young and ambitious to do a good job, he hadn't seen anything wrong with following the Grossman's to their various business cities. The big bosses had assigned him and police headquarters had given him the task, why shouldn't he follow them? But now, matured beyond his age, Benton saw the error of his mistakes etched in the dark skin of David Anderson. If only he could go back and slap some sense into his younger self. Alas, he could not and now, sitting in front of the man who was his mentor and friend, he had to do what was right.

"Here," he croaked after a moment, taking a slip of paper from his coat pocket and sliding over the desk to David. "It's all the details associated with Monk. I figured you'd need them." David took the slip of paper, opening his eyes to read the writing. He looked up at Benton questioningly. He chuckled and said, "I also figured that Starsky would put out an APB on Monk eventually and find his things. We can stay ahead of that and provide him the information so he doesn't waste valuable time trying to find a fellow cop."

David scoffed. "A fellow cop? Benton, you went MIA long ago. You are not a cop."

Benton licked his lips, gulping as a ball of emotion began to form in his throat. Not the happy welcome he had expected, not in the least. "I know. I want – _need_ – to make up for what I did. This is the first step."

"Homicide is run by Captain Dobey. I'll set up a meeting with him later today and you can explain what you did. Maybe he'll be more understanding that I but I highly doubt that."

"What about Starsky?"

"I'll have this information relayed to him," David replied with a sigh. "He won't be as forgiving as I am, you realise that, right? You did turn his partner into a junkie."

"I also allowed him to go free," Benton added. "And I have evidence and first hand knowledge that will put the Grossman's and many others behind bars for a very long time."

"It will not –"

"It's a start," Benton interrupted softly. "I know where to find him. I'll speak with him directly. He might already be looking for me."

"That is not a good idea," David argued. "Let's do this the right way. Let me take care of this, Benty. Have some coffee. Relax." He paused, his hand hovering over the telephone receiver. A smile erupted from the dark man's lips as he added, "You have a lot of reports to write."

Alexander Geoffrey Benton laughed wholeheartedly for the first time in a long time. The weight was slowly lifting from his shoulders and soon, very soon, he would be home.

(33)

Captain Dobey was enjoying a meaty sandwich with all the toppings a growing boy could ask for when there was a knock on the door. Hurriedly, he scatters to hide the colossal snack in the drawers of his desk, chewing the remaining and downing it with a sip of soda, which he also hid.

"What?" he snapped at the door and the person behind it. "What do you want?"

"Captain Dobey?" A man's voice entered before the body, the door opening a fraction. "May I come in?"

"Yes," the captain answered unsure of what was going on. "What do you want?"

A man smartly dressed in a three-piece suit entered his office, the air around him suggested he was from wealth and yet his expression showed nothing but remorse and sadness. He slipped inside the room, closing the door behind him and taking a seat in one of the two chairs in front of the captain's desk.

"I'm Benton, Alexander Geoffrey, sergeant first class. My captain, Captain David Anderson, should be here shortly but I wanted to speak to you first. I believe I am to blame for what happened to Detective Kenneth Hutchinson."

"What?!"

"Please, Captain," the man, Benton, said softly, his arms rose in a sign of defeat. "My involvement will become obvious in due time. For now, I ask that you get Sergeant Dave Starsky, I will need to speak to him as well."

"Now, listen here," Captain Dobey began, "either you tell me what is your part in all this or I'll – "

"Ah, that will be my captain now," Benton said as he stood up, a moment before the door to Dobey's office was knocked upon. "I'll get that, shall I?"

Dobey blinked wondering how Benton knew someone was approaching the door. Turning the knob, Benton stepped aside to allow David Anderson into the office. He held an annoyed expression on his usually calm face and merely rolled his eyes before entering and extending a hand to Dobey.

They shook hands and sat down. Anderson got straight down to business, setting a stack of reports down on Dobey's desk and proceeding to explain the situation. Dobey leaned back on his desk chair, the frustration apparent on Anderson's face now being echoed on his own. With every word the other men spoke it became obvious that they had a big problem.

Dobey informed them that Starsky, having called hours earlier, was on Monk's trail. He wasn't going to find anything, obviously, since Monk was sitting in the chair that Hutchinson usually occupied in Dobey's office and whose real name was Benton.

"What a mess," Dobey commented once the men had told their tale. "I need to speak to Starsky."

"I think that is best," Benton agreed with a purse of his lips. "Perhaps we may work together now that our goal is the same."

"There would be no need if Hutchinson hadn't been taken!" Dobey screamed at the man. "What exactly was your part in Hutchinson's 'incident', Benton?"

"I am as guilty as the Grossman's," the men acknowledged. "I am trying to make up for it now. Maybe one day, I'll be able to forgive myself ... until then, I will do anything in my power to help your detectives bring down the Grossman's."

A tension filled paused filled the room. Dobey stared down Benton as Anderson watched, his hands fidgeting on his lap. This had gone on far enough, he thought. He broke the silence by suggesting that Starsky should be contacted, the sooner he was brought into the loop, and the faster the Grossman's would be behind bars. Dobey agreed and picked up the phone.

* * *

Starsky drove past the house of one Allen "Monk" Philos for the third time in the last three hours. He was staking it out, watching for any movement but so far there had been none. No one went in, no one had come out. A few kids lingered by the corner, laughing it up with each other but other than that there was nothing out of the ordinary. He was about to leave the Torino when the tall tell radio beep came in, announcing Captain Dobey needed to speak to him. Pronto.

Sighing, he drove away from the residence with one last look and made his way to the police headquarters. He drove in relative silence, the thoughts going through his head were running too rapidly in his brain for his mouth to be able to form any words. He was worried, that was the gist of it.

Worried that this Monk guy was going to get away. Worried that he was nothing but some fink to asked for Starsky at the wrong time and place. Worried that Hutch would never be okay. Worried that his captors would find him whilst Starsky was gone. Worried about all the multitude of scenarios that could happen.

As he made his way into the parking lot, driving his Torino to his usual spot, Starsky wondered what Captain Dobey wanted. Surely the information could be said over the radio or on the phone. There was only one way to find out, he told himself as he got out of his precious red car and jogged his way into the building. The faster he got this over with, the faster and longer he could get back to search for the bastards who kidnapped Hutch.

Starsky didn't even knock when he came upon the Captain's door. He opened it, stepping through without warning. He halted a moment later when he saw a decorated police captain and a man who resembled a lawyer occupying the usually empty seats in front of the captain's desk.

"Sorry, cap'n!" He apologised. "You said it was urgent."

The men looked at one another for a moment as Starsky shits the door behind him. They say nothing for a long moment until the three-piece suit finally stands and offered his hand.

"I believe you are looking for me," he said. "My name is Alexander Benton but I am also known as Monk."

* * *

The punch came as a surprise to Benton as much as it did to the two captains. Neither did anything, his raised hand stopped their automatic response to violence, as Starsky punched him twice, thrice. He allowed the man to let out all his frustrations out, not moving much besides from the momentum that the man's punches hit him with.

He deserved it - hell, he deserved more than three punches to the face – and if the detective needed the release, he would rather be the target then some poor miscreant on the street. Perhaps he would have even more anger when the Grossman's were caught.

When Starsky released him, cradling his most likely injured hand, Benton pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the blood from his busted lip and nose. He watched as the detective took cautionary steps away from him, almost as if his body had just come out of a deep sleep and was unaccustomed to movement. Benton sat back down on the chair he had occupied before the little skirmish, waiting for Starsky to speak. A moment later, he did.

"What did you do to Hutch?" the detective asked snarled. "Why are you here?"

"I did nothing more than what was asked of me," he replied vaguely. "And for that I apologise."

"You apologise?!" Starsky threw his hands in the air, looking at Dobey incredulously. "Hear that, Cap? He apologises for making Hutch a junkie!"

Benton blinked. He had known things would be difficult with the man but not this difficult. He already felt bad without adding the emotions that were being emitted by the dark haired detective - the hate and loathing that were directed his way. He bottled all that in, wanting to beat himself over what he'd done in private, and blanked his face as he faced Starsky.

"I did what I was told, what the Grossman's told me to do. It is my job, after all." Benton looked at Anderson and Dobey, both giving him the go-ahead. "My name is Alexander Geoffrey Benton, sergeant first class of the deep cover unit assigned to infiltrate the Grossman's, their connections and bosses."

Starsky scoffed, unbelieving. "Of course you are!"

"I am here because I want to amend what I did," Benton continued, ignoring Starsky. "I have information that can and _will_ lock the Grossman's away for a long time. Their bosses, those that are in their pockets and any other affiliates as well. I have been undercover for a long time; most believed I had been killed. In those years, working under the law, I managed to become a trusted member of the family. I had a lot of dirt on them, dirt that you will need to nail them to the wall. I only wish to help and amend what I did to Hutchin-"

"You injected cocaine into him, beat and hurt him. What kind of a cop are you?" Starsky spat. "But sure, let's play buddy-buddy. Let's work together to get the Grossman's."

"I will be submitting to disciplinary action, criminal if that satisfies you," Benton assured. "I only wish to –"

"Help," Starsky interrupted. "I got that. Let's go."

* * *

Huggy picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. On the other side of the phone some scuffling and whispering could be heard before a shaky voice, Mickey's he recognised, spoke up. Requesting a meeting with Starsky about his partner, Huggy immediately paid close attention to the voice on the other end of the phone. Once the drunk had said his part, he hung up and turned, intending on walking to the desk nearby to grab Captain Dobey's number from the surface. He came face-to-face with the still weak Hutchinson.

"Who was that?" the blond asked, his eyes closing and opening rapidly. He was still weak and under the influence. "Any n-news?"

"It was Mickey," Huggy told him sidestepping Hutch to get to the desk. "Claims he had some word to do with you."

"He's usually reliable," Hutch said as he slips on his shoes. His shaky hands make it difficult for him to tie them so he settles for stuffing the laces on the inside of the shoe. He looks up at Huggy and asks, "You wanna call me a cab, Hug?"

"You ain't going nowhere."

Hutch rolls his eyes, licking his dry lips before replying, "do you mind calling me a cab?"

"Okay," Huggy said, "You're a cab but you still ain't leaving."

"Ima need to borrow some money and I'll take a gun if you got one," Hutch said, ignoring Huggy's protests. "The cab, please."

"You are out of your mind. You can't even tie your own shoes let alone hold a gun. I don't keep one anyhow."

Huggy dials the phone muttering to himself as Hutch finishes dressing. This was one bad idea, a fact he continued to say as Hutch got ready and the cab arrived. He makes sure no one sees the blond leave _The Pits_ and then, running back up to the room he now called 'the miracle room', he picked up the phone and called Captain Dobey.

"Hello, this is Huggy Bear," he said into the receiver when the man picked up. "I need to speak to Captain Dobey."

"Speaking."

"I need to talk to Starsky."

"You just missed him. He's heading back to you, I believe."

"I don't know how this cat figures into all this but Mickey called. He said he had information on what happened to Hutch," Huggy told the captain. "Hutch heard me talking to him and went to meet him. I tried to stop him but you know..."

"Yeah, I do know," the captain replied. "I'll get Starsky on the radio and tell him."

"Thanks," Huggy said. He bid the man good-bye and hung up, hoping that Hutch would be all right. He would never forgive himself if something happened to Hutch under his watch.

(34)

On the other side of town, Starsky led Benton to his car, a red thing with a white strip running down the centre. He tried not to chuckle at the ostentatious vehicle owned by the veteran detective and got in without a glance at the man who glared at him the whole way to the lot. They spoke of nothing as Starsky drove them to the safe house where Hutchinson was being kept.

The location both surprised and amazed Benton. _The Pits_ had been the first place they had looked, if he remembered correctly. He had sent Tom to investigate it a few times before nabbing the cop and then again when he had 'escaped'. The fact that Tom hadn't gotten a hold of the detective or any indication of his being here was a good thing. It meant that the Grossman's were not as powerful as they thought they were. They did not in fact have eyes and ears and grubby little hands in everything in Bay City.

Exiting the vehicle, Monk had a strange feeling. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Someone was watching them – watching _him._ He looked around but the only eyes he saw on him were those of Starsky. The dark haired detective said nothing, merely nodded at the entrance of the pub-slash-restaurant. Benton followed Starsky to the door when a beeping from the car radio stopped them.

Starsky turned, giving Benton a sour look as did so, and leaned into the car to answer the radio. There was a short conversation for which Benton stayed out of earshot. When the man snapped to attention, Benton took a step forward. He heard Starsky sign off, throwing the radio back into the Torino and swirling around to face him.

"Mickey," Starsky said, "he asked for a meeting with me. Hutch went in my place. Is he in their pocket, Benton?"

"Yes," he replied without hesitation. "Always has been."

Starsky blinked. "Always? You mean he –"

"Every time he's given you a tip, it's been about those who the Grossman's deemed... useless. I, personally, dealt with Mickey on most occasions. I would suggest we get to him before your partner."

"You think?" Starsky snapped, pulling open the red door and slipping back into the car.

Benton followed suit.

* * *

Mickey sat at the bar drinking a beer that Tom had bought thinking about what he had to say when the blond cop came in. He had his instructions but he has never been good with words. His hands shake in anticipation or perhaps from the withdraw his body is going through, he doesn't know, as he sits on the stool with Tom watching him like a hawk.

He heard rather than sees Tom get up from his post and head to the front of the bar. He waited for the sign, receiving it a moment later when Tom came back, touching his back. The sign he had picked, why had he picked it? Oh, right, he had wanted human contact. A bum doesn't get much in way of touch. Most people tend to shy away, spit or curse at him whenever he tried to get close. He doesn't blame them; he knows he doesn't smell like fresh cut grass. The need is still there, however. He shook away his thoughts as Tom orders him another pint, setting it down by Mickey.

"Remember what I said," Tom whispered into his ear. "Don't mess it up, bum."

Mickey shook his head, taking a sip of liquid courage. "I won't."

* * *

Outside, Hutch gets out of the cab and into unsteady ground. _Why is the ground shaking? Is there a – oh, it's me._ He leans against the hood of the cab, taking out the money Huggy had given him to pay the cabbie that looked at him with a worried expression.

"Are you sure you're all right?" the man asked as he was handed the money. "I can drive you to the hospital, if you want."

"I'm fine," Hutch snapped, pushing away from the cab and walking, unsteadily, to the pub.

It takes him a few tries to pull open the door, his eyes insisting on closing every few seconds and his body demanding rest. He was sweating heavily by the time he made it inside. He blinked, looking for Mickey and seeing him by the bar. He ignored that and settled for sitting in one of the tables, calling out for Mickey once he was seated.

Mickey glanced towards the entrance of the pub before getting down from his seat and taking a new one in front of Hutch.

"Hey, Mickey," Hutch greeted.

"Hey, hey, Hutch. Hey, what-what happened to you?"

"The word is that you can tell me."

"Yeah?" Mickey looked as bad as Hutch felt, his hands shaking as badly and eyelids closing at around the same speed. Suddenly, as Mickey continued, Hutch began to see doubles. "... Have heard something about you. You look sick, man, what happened?"

Hutch blinked trying to shoo away the extra Mickey that was in his vision before replying, "You had something to tell my partner. I'm listening."

Mickey took a quick sip of his drink. "Yeah. Yeah, yeah, uh, here's the scam."

* * *

Sonny drove to Tom's location the moment the man had called to say that Hutch had been spotted. The cop had to be dealt with or else mother would never be happy. If mother wasn't happy, no one else was happy. He drove the legal speed limit not wanting to draw attention to himself to the pub where Mickey usually hung at. Tom was waiting inside keeping an eye on Hutchinson.

According to him, the detective was in bad shape looking almost indistinguishable from Mickey. Momma would be so proud of him for catching the detective who had gotten away from her best henchmen. Monk was still nowhere to be seen and, Sonny hoped, he would stay that way.

He hadn't liked being second best to a bloke who could turn his mother against him at a moments notice. He had always suspected the man of having ulterior motives. There was something fishy about a man who would do anything and want nothing in return. Selflessness only exists in the books and in the movies in his experience.

Arriving, Sonny got out of the car and fixed his collar. He wanted to look nice when he got the cop and took him to his mother. He entered the squatty looking place with distaste, holding his breath as he looked around for Tom. He spotted the man on the far right by the public telephone.

"Tom," he greeted as he approached him. "Where are they?"

"Over there," Tom said pointing back to the centre of the room. Sonny followed his hands to a booth on the far right. "Mickey is just about running out of things to say."

"Well..." Sonny remarked with a smile. "How about we go meet his little friend?"


End file.
